


The Prewett Pie

by bratkatya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Azkaban, BAMF Charlie Weasley, Bad Weasley Family, Barely Legal, Beauxbatons, Best Friends, Cheating, Creature Inheritance, Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Dragons, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Excessive Drinking, Explicit Language, F/M, Famous Harry, Forbidden Love, Ginny Weasley Bashing, Goblins, Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Gryffindor/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter Friendship, Hermione Granger Bashing, Hogwarts, House Hunting, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Inheritance, Magical Inheritance, Matchmaker Pansy Parkinson, Ministry of Magic, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Minor Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Mistakes, Mistress, Molly Weasley Bashing, Money, Moving In Together, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Arthur, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Past Draco Malfoy/Pansy Parkinson, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pining Harry Potter, Poor Molly, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Premarital Sex, Protective Charlie, Punishment, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society, Purebloods, Quidditch, Rags to Riches, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Ron Weasley Bashing, Scandal, Schoolgirls, Slytherin, Slytherin Politics, Slytherin Pride, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Strong Female Characters, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, Unspeakables, Veela, Weasley Bashing, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, Wedding Night, Wedding Planning, Wedding Rings, Weddings, Wizarding Politics, Wizarding Traditions, Wizarding Wars, Wizarding World, Wizarding World Bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-03-26 04:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 52,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13850499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratkatya/pseuds/bratkatya
Summary: Magical Inheritance Law #151: Only the firstborn son may be named the Heir to a family inheritance, and subsequently be eligible to claim the title of Patriarch and Lord of the House.-See Footnote #3 for protocol if the rightful Heir or accepted Lord perishes before producing a son.Bill comes across a startling discovery at Gringotts, prompting him to inform Charlie of his withheld inheritance.





	1. Molly is Exposed

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter world belongs solely and entirely to J.K. Rowling. I thank her for this chance to take a stroll down her sidewalk.

Charles Weasley never expected to be placed into a situation such as this.

He knows the rules of Pureblooded inheritance, has known them since he was five. Bill is the firstborn son and Heir of the Weasley family, and will inherit the title of Patriarch once their father dies. 

Arthur and Molly Weasley had been satisfied knowing their family name would live on through Bill, and continued to have children to their heart’s content without a thought to the gender of their offspring. Neither deigned it all that important a matter to explain the intricacies of inheritance to their children beyond that fact that Bill would be in charge someday.

Bill discovered the Prewett inheritance on his own.

For centuries, a Wizagamot of Purebloods insistent on protecting their legacies had upheld the old British wizarding law. One such law decreed that if the natural born Heir to a Pureblood family perished before producing a son and thereby naming a new Heir, the deceased Heir’s next male sibling may step in as replacement. 

“An Heir and a spare,” wizards would joke, chortling over aged firewhiskey.

It is common practice in Pureblood families to produce at least two sons for this exact reason. Marjory and Folton Prewett gave birth to twin sons, securing their line, and then produced a daughter they named Molly. When the twins were killed in the First British Wizarding War, Molly, by then a Weasley, found herself unable to assume the title of natural-born Prewett Heir. 

Much to her anger, she discovered that women couldn’t be named legal Heirs in Britain under any circumstances, even if the remaining female was as capable as she believed herself to be. Luckily, a footnote to the law solved the problem by assuring that should no male sibling remain, the second born son of the female sibling may assume the family title and claim the inheritance. 

Molly Weasley was bound by law to name her firstborn son, Bill, as the Weasley family Heir. She could have named Charlie, her second born, the new Heir of the Prewetts. 

Of course, Molly Weasley decided it uncouth to partake in such ancient and offensive practices. She had taken her inability to assume the title herself as a personal insult, and vowed the Prewett name would die with her brothers. 

Bill Weasley had stumbled upon the unclaimed Prewett inheritance while sorting through files at Gringotts. Later on, he would wonder why his Goblin supervisor had assigned him those papers to read. The Goblins never did like the emotional way wizards handle their affairs. To a Goblin, inheritance is business, and to deny someone his or her rightful business is a heinous act indeed. Molly had not received good service at Gringotts for many years, and it was suddenly clear to Bill the reason why.

He had apparated immediately to his younger brother, and explained his discovery to a bewildered Charlie who lost all amusement with each passing moment. Running a family, even one so underprivileged as the Weasleys, is a heaping ton of work. The Patriarch of a Pureblood family has many matters to deal with beyond his immediate wife and children. 

He is in charge of setting up engagements for all of his family members, settling any debts made with the family, and forming alliances with other ancient broods. Arthur Weasley had never been very good at these responsibilities, and so Bill had relied on his Goblin coworkers and affluent wife to help him sort it out as he stepped more and more into the title he’d eventually hold. 

Fleur Delacour Weasley originated from one of the oldest magical families in France. Due to her superior lineage in comparison to Bill, she could have actually legally insisted that he take her name when they wed- if he hadn’t been the male Heir of a British family, and if she hadn’t been uninterested in such practices, of course. They avoided that complication entirely by having her relinquish her position as Heir of the Delacour family.

Molly Weasley had been so opposed to Bill marrying above his station not only because Fleur is richer and foreign, but also because the Veela would be slated to become the next Weasley Matriarch. Molly could not stand the idea of a spoiled French creature claiming her title upon Arthur’s death, the agreed-upon time that Bill would be named Lord Weasley.

However, Bill is generally uninterested in his mother’s opinions, and so felt as much guilt marrying Fleur against her wishes as he had over exposing her machinations to hide Charlie’s inheritance- none. 

Fleur Delacour had come with an inheritance a Princess would drool over and the attitude of a blast-ended skrewt. Bill could not have found a better partner. If they had settled in France and Bill had relinquished his own title, Victoire would have been the natural born Heir to the immense Delacour fortune, since Fleur would have accepted the title of Lady Delacour. French law does not discriminate females, and Fleur would have been named the Head of her family upon her father’s death. 

As it stands, since they settled in Britain, Bill technically ranks higher than his wife due to the discriminatory nature of his home country. Fleur could not remain the Delacour Heir once she married him and ceded her claim, and the title passed to her younger sister.

It is likely that 18-year-old Gabrielle will soon marry one of her many French boyfriends, and then claim the title of Lady Delacour in lieu of her firstborn sister. Fleur is unbothered by losing her title as Heir after marrying Bill, for she would not trade her marriage for all the titles in the world. All she ever wanted was to be loved, not to be revered. Gabby can have that all that attention for herself.

Fleur is currently quite pregnant with her second child, and set to give birth in April. She insists to Bill that it will be another girl, which would make for a total of three Veelas in their home. Gabrielle has promised to be there for the birth, and often pops over to Britain to see how her beloved elder sister is holding up. It’s a lucky thing that Gabrielle is more than willing to fund her sister’s budding family, since Fleur cannot access the Delacour accounts any longer.

It was extremely unfortunate and embarrassing what had happened to the Weasley family’s finances during the First British Wizarding War. Society wives who know the truth will turn their noses up at Molly in public, yet pray her bad fortune may never similarly befall them. The Prewett family was a wealthy one indeed, members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight with a prestigious reputation. Molly grew up coddled and assured by her older brothers that she could marry whomever she preferred since they would always pad their darling sister’s pockets and support her children. 

Though the Weasley’s are also members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, they are, and always have been, very poor. 

This trivial fact did not concern Molly until her brothers’ deaths, upon which her access to the Prewett vault was deemed to be restricted until she named her second-born son the new Heir. 

“You’re telling me that she purposefully withheld this money from our family?” Charlie asks. The ‘And me?’ is unspoken, but understood. 

Bill nods. “That’s how it looks. You and I didn’t suffer much, since we still had the dredges of her personal Prewett vault when we attended school, but the rest of the kids…” he shrugs. 

“I always knew Mum was unreasonable, but this….” Charlie sighs, gripping the bank records tightly in his callused hands. “So much could have been different if she’d have stopped taking it so damn personally and just named me the Heir.”

Though he feels no guilt, Bill is still a bit regretful as he considers his tanned younger brother. Charlie will likely never wrangle dragons again once he accepts his position as the Prewett Patriarch. He’ll be expected to marry and have children, just like Bill.

“My supervisor at Gringotts has left an appointment slot open today, should you need it.” Bill offers his brother a half-smile. “He knew I was coming here to talk to you.”

“How did he know I’d want to speak with Gringotts?” Charlie asks.

Bill works as a curse breaker. Surely he wouldn’t have been gossiping to his supervisor about family drama. 

“Who do you think gave me those papers?” Bill retorts, grinning a bit. 

Charlie shakes his head. The Goblins never did know how to keep their fingers out of other people’s pies. I guess I’d better go deal with my pie.

“Don’t tell Mum or any of the kids that I’m in Britain.” Charlie orders. “I wouldn’t want anyone finding out about this until I’ve figured out what to do.”

Bill only grins as he stands to put on his coat. “I think that goes without saying. Also, I should warn you about my assistant. I’ll be heading home after this, so she’ll be handling you at Gringotts. Don’t…” Bill pauses in his dressing, smirking a bit. “Don’t antagonize her. She had it hard during the war, and she’s a little rude to strangers.”

“Honestly, Bill.” Charlie chuckles as he gets to his feet. “I work with the meanest blokes on the planet and wrangle dragons for a living, and you think some chit is going to offend me?”

“Don’t tempt fate.” Bill grins, striding forward to clasp him in a tight hug.

“How’s Fleur doing, anyway?” Charlie asks, eyeing his brother’s expression. Speaking of rude chits…

“The second pregnancy is hitting her harder than the first did.” Bill informs him. “She spends most of her time cursing our unborn child in French and swearing that she’ll never let me between her legs again.” 

“Need me to babysit?” Charlie offers, grinning as he thinks of his sister-in-law. 

Charlie had been one of, if not the only Weasley to treat Fleur with respect once she was engaged to Bill. Having worked with magical creatures since graduation, Charlie understood the intricacies of navigating a Veela inheritance better than most wizards. While the majority of his coworkers are male and Veela inheritance only applies to females, he has had a coworker or two over the years who were sons of Veela mothers, and brothers of Veela sisters. 

Fleur isn’t a mean woman; she just doesn’t want to cause trouble by unleashing her allure on everyone. 

The only way to combat the natural charm of Veela magic is rudeness. Otherwise, she could end many marriages and destroy many lives. Charlie considers Fleur to be compassionate and adorable, even with her rudeness in tow. She cares enough about other people’s feelings to sacrifice a portion of her loveliness. In Charlie’s eyes, this makes her quite selfless. 

“Nope.” Bill shoots him down. “I’m going to stop for roses on the way home. She hates British flora, you see. Gives her something new to complain about.”

With that, Bill is gone, and Charlie is left holding a pile of old papers and a distinct sense of discomfort. 

“Gringotts.” he mutters, tossing a handful of powder into the floo.


	2. Pansy is Inconvenienced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to J.K. Rowling.

When Charlie Weasley emerges gracefully onto the marble floor of the Gringotts floo station, he is immediately bowed to. Though not as familiar with the Goblin race as Bill, he knows enough about Goblin culture to nod respectfully back. 

Traditionally, the Gringotts floo exists solely for business being conducted in secret. Only wizards in good standing with the bank and a contact on the inside vouching for them are allowed to use it. The station resides deeper into Gringotts than most wizards ever see, and Charlie swallows hastily in an effort to appear less nervous.

The Prewett inheritance must be something of a big deal if Bill’s boss has allowed him to arrive like this.

“Mr. Weasley?” A stout Goblin dressed in a fine suit approaches him.

“That would be me.” Charlie clasps his hands to keep from shuffling his feet. “And you are?”

The Goblin raises his eyebrows, and some of his brethren working just beyond turn from their work to eye the new party for a second time.

“I am Nagrok.” the Goblin introduces himself. “I am a coworker of Bill’s.”

“Nice to meet you.” Charlie states, holding out his hand.

Nagrok looks down at the offered appendage as if he’s unsure whether this is a trick or a disgusting breech of etiquette, but shakes the hand regardless.

“Now,” Nagrok smoothes imaginary wrinkles out of his jacket before turning abruptly on one shiny heel and striding briskly down a hallway. 

Charlie assumes he is meant to follow, and wonders if he is underdressed for the occasion. Wearing a worn t-shirt bearing a common Romanian drinking phrase and jeans is starting to seem like a bad choice.

“I understand these matters are considered very delicate amongst the wizarding population, so you will be speaking to Griphook, the Prewett account manager, alone.” the Goblin speaks over his shoulder.

“Alright.” Charlie picks up his pace. “Was I supposed to arrive with anything? Some form of I.D.?”

“Your wand will do.” Nagrok states, pausing before a plain oakwood door and running his fingers along it.

“Alright.” Charlie rescues his wand from his pant pocket. “Should I show you now, or-“

“You may enter.” Nagrok awards him a final nod as he opens the door, and then retreats out of sight down the black marble corridor.

“Mr. Charles Weasley. It is a pleasure to meet the brother of my favorite employee.”

Charlie nearly starts upon laying eyes on the speaker, but manages to catch himself in time. Griphook is the largest Goblin that he has seen so far, and his face rather scarred and menacing compared to Nagrok.

“Mr. Griphook.” Charlie steps forward to offer his hand, ignoring a shiver of cool magic as he enters the room. “I believe your name is familiar.”

Griphook also eyes the offering suspiciously, but shakes his hand regardless before motioning towards the chair set in front of the imposing desk which dominates the room. 

“Your dear brother Ronald most likely mentioned my name while regaling epic tales of his robbery of Gringotts.” Griphook sneers as he sits rather carefully.

Charlie bites his lip. He’s seen enough injured animals over the years to recognize that Griphook must have some sort of issue to be moving so hesitantly, but it would probably be more prudent to address his younger brother’s idiocy first. 

“I do hope you won’t judge me for the behavior of my family member.”

It must be a smile that reveals Griphook’s teeth, but Charlie isn’t quite sure if the look is meant to be relaxing or threatening. 

“If Goblins had any interest in judging Wizards for their families’ behavior, we would be out of business.” Griphook’s voice does not waver.

Charlie grins, recognizing a joke. “I don’t have much interest in Wizard behavior, either. I work with dragons in Romania for most months of the year.”

“I am aware of your employment.” the Goblin reaches forward to take hold of a black folder.

“Alright.” Charlie states, clasping his hands together. 

“It is common practice in Gringotts to referee family disputes when an inheritance changes status.” Griphook speaks plainly. “The Prewett fortune is rather significant, so I expected to meet with you upon your seventeeth birthday to discuss your new holdings.” 

Now it’s Charlie’s turn to look uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t aware of-“

“Yes.” Griphook smiles again. “So it seems. Regardless, I have maintained the Prewett vaults and kept track of business ventures in the hopes you would one day claim the inheritance and relieve me of all this paperwork.”

“Paperwork?” Charlie raises an eyebrow at the thin black folder held aloft in Griphook’s hand.

The Goblin chuckles, turning slightly to motion to three towering filing cabinets set directly behind his chair. The entire color scheme of this part of the bank is cream-colored walls, oakwood furniture, and black floors and cabinets. Not a single personal item proves this room belongs to a single person.

“The Parkinsons, the Potters, and the Prewetts.” Griphook points to each cabinet. “Three very old families, three very substantial inheritances, two of which lay neglected for years.”

“Harry probably couldn’t access everything until he reached the age of majority.” Charlie points out.

“It wasn’t the Potter account I was referring to.” Griphook counters. “Dumbledore, for some ungodly reason, took care of managing the Potter affairs after the passing of Lord and Lady James Potter. I’ve only worked with the Lord Harry Potter since the end of the wizarding war.” 

“Why would Dumbledore have been managing it?” Charlie asks without thinking.

Griphook leans forward. “Perhaps you are more like Bill than your intolerable younger brother, Mr. Charles Weasley.”

Charlie feels rather complimented. “Not to discredit that flattering view of me, but I’m at a loss of what my next step should be with the Prewett situation.”

“That is precisely what I am sitting here for, rather than attending to my own responsibilities.” Griphook states. “Should you consent, we can begin the legal acceptance of your inheritance immediately.”

“Now I know you’re trying to lower your opinion of me.” Charlie leans back and crosses his arms. “What kind of idiot would just give consent without demanding the terms of such an agreement?”

Griphook laughs out loud. “Dear God, you are much too intelligent to be a wizard, Mr. Charles Weasley.” 

Charlie keeps his opinion on that statement to himself. “Call me Charlie.”

“Mr. Charlie, I have drawn up a summary of what exactly your consent to this process will demand.” Griphook hands him the folder. “If you would prefer, I will grant you a twenty-four hour period to consider the offer.”

“No need.” Charlie waves him off, already skimming through the packet. He has to actively keep from shouting out when he lays eyes on the monetary allotment growing dusty in the Prewett vaults. 

Molly Weasley will pay dearly for this.

Charlie could not only have kitted out his siblings in the finest school supplies that money could buy with that money, but he could have probably picked up the tab for every single student in each of their years. For all seven years. 

“Excuse my language, Griphook, but this is fucking ridiculous.” Charlie states, rubbing his eyes before reading the numbers for a second time.

The Goblin chuckles indulgently. “Understand, Mr. Charlie, that the number you see is merely comprised of the gold that remains in the family vaults. You haven’t reached the page which explains which Muggle stocks the Prewetts retain ownership of.”

“More-? Griphook,” Charlie is on his feet, tucking the packet back into its unassuming folder. “I apologize, but I will, in fact, need to take that twenty-four hour grace period.” 

“Of course.” he agrees. “Return tomorrow at three in the afternoon to inform me of your decision. I will have Nagrok collect you upon arrival. The floo will be left open to your residence for one more day.”

“Thank you.” Charlie waves, careening out the door.

“Christ!” a voice shrieks as he shoots out into the hall.

Charlie has smacked into someone on his way out and someone knocked onto his ass. A female someone, if the voice is anything to go by. Though the stranger does not hit the floor, the large stack of papers she’d been carrying certainly does. Charlie’s folder certainly does.

“Oh, hell.” he mutters, immediately kneeling on the marble to try and pluck his missing file from the paper mess.

“Excuse you!” a high-heeled foot stomps angrily in front of his eyes.

The foot leads to a leg, which gives way to a somewhat short skirt, which gives way to a-

“Hey.” Charlie greets the unfamiliar witch. “Mind helping me find my papers?”

The girl has drawn her wand, and it suddenly registers with Charlie that she looks ready to kill him.

“What is going on- Miss Parkinson.” Griphook bows creakily once he has arrived at the edge of the mess. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“I thought I paid off Nagrok to tend to this fool!” Miss Parkinson howls, her pretty face twisting with displeasure.

“I’m sorry, Miss.” Charlie gets to his feet and holds out a hand helpfully. “I’m Charlie Weasley.”

Miss Parkinson looks to Griphook as if expecting him to tell her she’s the victim of a joke.

“I know.” she scoffs. “If you weren’t such a twat, you’d have grasped that I’m the one who arranged for you to be here. Except, you aren’t supposed to be sprinting out of the office like a drunk hippogriff without a glance to where you’re headed, and now the last two hours of my life has been sacrificed thanks to your utter carelessness!” her arms gesture wildly at the mess.

“I’m sorry.” Charlie repeats, holding up his hands. “I’ll help you sort it out. I have papers in there too, you know.”

“Bloody knob.” Pansy mutters, placing her hands on her slim hips as she rounds on their audience. “And what do you want?”

Griphook grins. “Ever such a delight, Miss Parkinson. Care to join me for a cup of tea to discuss your own utter carelessness?”

Miss Parkinson throws up her hands, still insulting Charlie wildly under her breath as she kneels and begins heralding the pages on the floor into separate piles. Griphook retreats into his office without speaking.

“I really am sorry.” Charlie informs the witch, joining her on the floor to search surreptitiously through her piles for his folder with no success. Considering the darkness of the black marble, it probably would have been a good idea for the Goblins to normalize a different color folder. Maybe pink.

“Shut up.” she mutters, scowling even as she quickly neatens the mess into what seems to be an organized system. 

“That’s mine!” Charlie reaches out for the folder she has picked up.

The witch moves so quickly, Charlie is nearly unbalanced when he pitches forward without making contact. She holds the folder just out of reach, dark eyes widening as she recognizes the embossed crest on the front.

“Prewett?” she states as if the word doesn’t make sense. “How the- you’re inheriting as a Prewett?” 

It seems Bill really is a bit of a gossip.

“That’s not your business.” Charlie reaches forward again, but is deterred by her swift retreat, while she somehow stays upright despite kneeling in high heels. “Are you a Quidditch player?” he demands.

“No.” Miss Parkinson barks, opening the folder and beginning to shuffle through the pages with no regard at all to his presence.

“Hey!” Charlie protests, standing up and striding forward to pull the folder out of her hands. “That’s illegal.”

Miss Parkinson looks up, contemplating him through narrowed eyes, and she settles on an expression of pouting dissatisfaction.

“I just wanted to see how you’re related to a Prewett.” she whines, returning gracefully to her feet with no apparent effort.

“My Mum.” Charlie states. “Now, goodbye.”

“Bill will tell me anyways.” the girl says. Miss Parkinson waves her wand languidly and levitates her piles of papers into a single hovering stack, which she plucks from the air with an exaggerated motion. 

“Who are you?” Charlie demands. “Does Fleur know how chummy you are with Bill?”

The witch laughs, but her tone is cruel. “Who do you think hired me to be his assistant?” she counters. “I’m Pansy Parkinson, and I’m late returning these records to Griphook because of you.”

“I already apologized!” Charlie’s temper is being tested now. “And Griphook saw the accident, it’s not like you’ll get in trouble.”

“That is irrelevant.” she sniffs.

“You’re annoying.” Charlie points out.

“You’re an uncouth idiot!” Pansy snaps.

“Ah yes, the records I requested.” Griphook has returned to the doorway at the sound of raising voices, and he unloads the armful from Pansy with care.

“You’re an idiot too.” Pansy snorts as she turns to face her boss’s supervisor. “I could have carried those to the cabinets for you, Griphook. In fact, I’m the one who’ll end up sorting it all away...”

The witch has followed Griphook into the office without so much as a glance in Charlie’s direction, and he wonders if he would have felt less insulted if she’d stuck out her tongue and slammed the door in his face.

A rude assistant, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a method I'm using to get over my usual excuses and get comfortable posting something without spending years editing and overthinking. 
> 
> Consequently, I don't predetermine the plot of or revise The Prewett Pie- it just sorta comes out when I settle down to write a chapter- so feel free to offer any and all suggestions.
> 
> \--PBY


	3. Blaise is Impaired

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs entirely to J.K. Rowling.

Emerging from a very long, very hot, soul-searching shower, Charlie’s mood deflates as he considers what to wear to this ill-fated confrontation. He hasn’t attended the monthly family dinner in almost half a year, always citing distance as the hurdle he cannot overcome. 

In truth, Charlie has been working from Britain nearly as often as he’s been hunkered down in Romania. It’s a fair prediction that Molly will be quite vocal with her displeasure over her son’s shoddy attendance. 

With that in mind, Charlie opens up one of his barren cabinets and takes a swig of the expensive whiskey bottle sitting forlorn within. 

“Ah, the young Lord returns.” 

Charlie nearly slams his head into the cabinet as he turns, but manages to duck in time- though his boss proceeds to roar in laughter at the sight of him.

“Why is it everyone in the wizarding world knows more about this inheritance than I do?” Charlie grumbles, shuffling to the sink to pull two clean tumblers from the drying rack.

“Well, that would be because I lunch with Pansy twice a week.” Blaise snickers. “And she’s been worried about the Prewett inheritance since she first learned of it. I got an emergency gossip just now with a reveal of the lucky Heir.”

“Hold on.” Charlie stops him. “I have a couple of questions I’d like for you to answer before any more of your awful riddles.”

“Gung ho.” Blaise nods.

Charlie looks at him in utter confusion.

“It’s a Muggle saying, old boy.” Blaise waves away a real explanation, opting to snatch the bottle and glasses from Charlie’s hands without asking.

“You are so pushy.” Charlie grumbles. “You and your gossip-mongering girlfriend.”

“First off, everything within this flat is paid for with my funds, old boy. So technically, that’s my property, and I may push as I see fit.” Blaise levels a gaze in the older man’s direction.

“Details.” Charlie rolls his eyes. 

“Second off,” Blaise passes him a full glass, inadvertently wafting the scent into the poor man’s face and causing his head to spin. “Pansy is not my girlfriend. She is a gossipmonger, though. Point on that.”

“Explain to me what you know.” Charlie demands, gesturing towards his boss.

Blaise walks away, choosing to settle down for a lounge on the couch before speaking.

“Well,” Blaise takes a languid sip of his drink, prompting Charlie to do the same. The alcohol is rich, and very, very strong. His entire mouth tastes like a buttery smokehouse. 

This definitely isn’t a bottle sold at The Three Broomsticks. I should pay better attention to what Blaise stocks my kitchen with. 

“I suppose I should start a few weeks ago, before you had returned to Britain.” Blaise has a distinctly feline expression on his face as he tosses out breadcrumbs of information. 

Gossipmongers- the whole lot of them.

“It all began when Pansy was ordered to organize a large stack of records, specifically on magical families without Heirs, for permanent filing. Of course, she refused to tell me much more about the rest of the poor bastards, but the Prewett family is a special case, so I do know a bit about your unique situation.” 

“Without the dramatics, please.” Charlie requests, surprised to find his glass already diminished. He had never so much as finished a glass of Odgen’s Old before, never liking the burn of the common brands. 

I suppose it’s true that money can make anything go down easier. 

“You’re no fun, Charlie.” Blaise pouts, a sharp reminder of his female compatriot. “As I was saying, Pansy paid a little more attention to the Prewett file- likely because they’re a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, which is just so unfortunate-“

“Blaise.”.

“-And she discovered a document citing that the family had a living female heir who refused to name her son as the new Lord Prewett.”

“How shocking.” Charlie mutters.

“Agreed, old boy.” Blaise sniffs. “Pansy, respectable high-society witch that she is, immediately brought the uncomfortable situation to the attention of her supervisor- the dear girl went straight to the top, bypassing even Bill. You must understand; these situations can be very precarious.” 

“Naturally.” Charlie says.

“Though Pansy wondered who would be named the new Lord Prewett, she was never privy to which family the female Heir married into, so there was no possible way to find out. It irked her quite a bit.” Blaise whispers conspiratorially. 

“Then, just this morning, hunky Bill is banging on his boss’s door, demanding an audience. Pansy’s interest is peaked. Whatever could have been so urgent?” 

Blaise is clearly enjoying himself as he relays the tale, gesturing with abandon and adjusting the lilt of his voice as the mood strikes.

“The point,” Charlie states.

“Shush.” Blaise chastises him. “Now, as soon as Bill emerges from the boss’s office, he informs Pansy that an unnamed brother will be coming in to collect an inheritance. Pansy intelligently arranges to make herself scarce- after all, the brother could have been Ron- but despite all efforts at decorum, you manage to bring the girl to her knees right there in the hallway.”

Charlie would have choked if he’d been drinking while Blaise spoke.

“I must say, Charlie,” he snickers. “I am rather impressed.” 

“I apologized.” Charlie insists. “And Pansy went through the folder when she shouldn’t have! I could have her fired, you know.”

“Now, now.” Blaise levels a hard stare at him. “You wouldn’t be so unintelligent as to embarrass the dear friend of your employer in such a manner.”

“I’m not responsible for her lack of professionalism.” Charlie holds his hands up. “Griphook saw it all.”

“Hmph.” he huffs. “Be warned. If Pansy is fired because of you, I’ll loose her on you as your supervisor.” 

“Cruel bastard.” Charlie shakes his head. “And don’t call me a Lord. I haven’t decided whether to accept the inheritance or not.”

“Now you’re just being insulting.” Blaise climbs gracefully to his feet and ambles back into the kitchen. “Another, old boy?”

“If I drink anymore, I’ll be too drunk to make an appearance at dinner.” Charlie declines. “Why would my not accepting the title be insulting?”

“Because it is your birthright.” Blaise sounds irritated. “Honestly. I’m aware of your total lack of Sacred Twenty-Eight knowledge, but even a Weasley should know how important this is. One of the Noble and Most Ancient families faces extinction, and then, out of the blue, a savior arrives in the form of an unmarried Heir! We should be banging the bells, or whatever it is Muggles say!”

“Why would anyone care?” Charlie contends.

“Dear God, my charred chum.” Blaise has resorted to drinking directly out of the bottle. “Everyone with a hand in the common-fucking-sense hat cares. The Sacred Twenty-Eight run the Ministry. We, as members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, are considered leaders with direct influence in the magical world.”

Charlie worries suddenly if it’s responsible to leave Blaise here by himself when the man is clearly in no state to function properly. 

“Not to mention,” he continues, “A striking new bachelor has just entered the scene. There are a plethora of Sacred families with nubile young daughters just aching to arrange a-“

“Shut up.” Charlie shakes his head wildly. “And don’t ever use the word ‘nubile’ in my presence again.”

Blaise barks out a laugh. “Congratulations, partner. You’ve been handed a giant step up into the world of the elite. Every door is open. Accept your inheritance and do fuck-all, I say.”

“Oh yes, because doing ‘fuck-all’ has been so profitable for your ventures.” Charlie drawls.

“I convinced you to work for me, didn’t I?” Blaise grins, leaning against the countertop. “And my stock portfolio is booming. Who knew the Muggles were so inventive. I could buy anything. Even you, my irrational idiot.”

“You couldn’t afford me.” Charlie sighs, placing the used glasses in the sink while eyeing his boss with a bit of uncertainty. 

“What?” Blaise cocks his head, fluttering his lashes. “See something you like?”

Charlie finally breaks down and laughs at the ridiculous expression on Blaise’s face that he assumes is meant to look seductive.

“That’s it, old boy!” the younger man claps him on the shoulder. “Always approach a dragon with a smile and bottle of fine wine.”

“Nothing you just said makes even the slightest bit of sense.” Charlie points out.

“But it made you smile.” Blaise crows. “And I’m rather pissed. Now go, discover why your mother never told you about your inheritance, and then come back here and tell me all the dirty details. Don’t bother knocking. Just barge right in.”

“I have a sense of decency, unlike you.” Charlie snorts. “And last time I approached your flat without banging pots and pans, or hiring a dragon to roar and announce my arrival, I found your Boggle partner spread across your lap like a history book.”

“Muggles are so inventive with their hobbies.” Blaise sighs contentedly. “Maybe I’ll give Marissa a call.”

“Use a contraceptive charm.” Charlie reminds the young man over one shoulder, tossing a handful of floo powder into the unembellished fireplace.

“Of course, old boy.” Blaise winks. “Even if the whole evening goes belly up, just remind yourself that I’m paying you an obscene amount to go collect dragon sheddings for my fashion line, and I will continue to offer you the chance to do so until I’m dead.”

“Thanks, Boss.” Charlie sniggers.

Blaise relaxes when he notes that the smile on the redhead’s face is genuine.

“The Burrow!” Charlie calls out confidently, disappearing into the fire with a hiss of green flames.

“Cheers, mate.” Blaise mumbles, toasting his favorite employee and striding off with the intention of phoning a certain Boggle player.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story does not undergo revision, I'd love to hear your thoughts
> 
> \--PBY


	4. Charlie is Enraged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

If there is one thing Charlie hates more than stepping in dragon dung, it’s his Mum sticking her nose where it shouldn’t be.

Molly Weasley has always been a nosy person, ever since she was a child and she was spying on her older brothers in hopes she’d catch them up to no good. When she began having children of her own, she vowed she’d always know what sort of trouble they were getting into- even if she never addressed it. Of course, there are very few topics Molly Weasley is unwilling to address. 

“Dear heavens!” Molly gasps, placing a hand over her heart as she realizes someone has clamored out of the living room fireplace. “Charlie!”

With that, Charlie has his arms full of a tearless-but-still-sobbing Molly Weasley, and the room becomes suffocating as the rest of his family files in to investigate the racket. 

“Charlie, mate!” Ron crows, clapping his brother on the back. “How did you get here? I thought you were in Romania til Christmas!”

“Hey, Ron.” Charlie smiles tightly. “I am. I’ve only come for a few days to handle some business, but I thought I would still come by to see you all.”

“My sweet boy!” Molly howls, still squeezing his middle. “How dare you come back to Britain without letting us know! I would have invited everyone over to welcome you with a party.” 

“Sorry, Mum.” Charlie mumbles, deftly slipping out of her arms and approaching his father.

“Charles.” Arthur smiles gently. “You look well.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Charlie offers as close to a genuine smile as he can manage.

“Ron, go fix up Percy’s old room!” Molly crows. “He’s busy with some law they’re trying to pass through the Ministry, so he isn’t coming for dinner-“ 

“I’m staying with a friend.” Charlie interrupts her. “Don’t worry about it, Mum.”

“Well, now, you can’t come to visit and not stay with your own family!” Molly insists, ignorant of the fact that her son is too busy trading glances with his father to truly pay attention to her tirade. 

Arthur Weasley, contrary to popular opinion within the Ministry, is not an idiot. In fact, Arthur outscored Molly on every single one of their OWLS with the sole exception of Potions. If Arthur had accepted the internship he was offered with the owner of Karshi Flying Carpets midway through his seventh year, he would most likely have settled down in India and devoted all of his time to the next big wizarding invention. 

Unfortunately, right around the time he was offered the elite opportunity, Molly announced her pregnancy with Bill. A wedding was set to take place directly after graduation, and since Molly refused to raise a baby outside of Britain, the internship fell by the wayside. 

While Molly strives to know all of the business of their children, Arthur feels no need to pry. He can tell by merely looking into their faces if there is something going on that needs his attention. 

Looking into the face of his second-born son while Ginny greets Charlie with a hug and George sulks by the doorway, Arthur can tell that something has gone very wrong.

“Why don’t we talk a walk through the orchard?” Arthur says.

The room goes quiet. Ginny responds to Ron’s look of confusion with a shrug. George continues to stare at the ground. The Weasley children know not to interfere when their father uses that tone.

“He’s just arrived!” Molly blusters, smiling brightly. “Surely, Arthur-“

“I insist.” her husband states, his smile rather bland.

“I’ll be right back.” Charlie promises. 

Molly’s smile settles into a frown of annoyance as he steps around her and follows Arthur to the door. He squeezes George’s shoulder gently to no reaction, and notes how thin his brother has gotten since the end of the War. Charlie decides he’ll have to start checking up on George far more frequently, since the rest of his siblings have apparently made little effort to help him. 

While Charlie was always closest to Bill and Percy due to their similar ages, he was present frequently enough during the Twin’s childhoods to be familiar with their behavior. Ron and Ginny are a bit more like strangers to him, but George is a riddle he knows how to figure out. 

The night has cooled significantly, signaling that the spring weather the Burrow anticipates will not arrive soon. With a breeze this chilly in March, it’s a fair prediction that the sun will not warm the earth in earnest until May. Arthur is silent for a few minutes, admiring the withered apple trees stretched out before them. 

“Tell me, son.” Arthur speaks quietly, gazing up at the darkening sky. “Is the friend you’re here to visit a boy?”

Charlie starts. This is not the interrogation he was expecting. “Yes. He is a boy.”

Arthur nods. “Are you seeing him romantically?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Charlie mumbles. “Dad-“

“Son.” Arthur sighs, turning to face him directly with a face that is both desperate and pleased. “I wouldn’t care if you brought home to us a reformed Death Eater, if it meant I could meet the person you finally fell in love with. Why would you ever think your being gay would be something you have to hide from me?”

“Well, Dad, that would be because I’m not gay.” Charlie explains, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I promise you, if that were the problem, I would have brought the man along to dinner to introduce to you all without even a thought to your reaction.”

“Then, what’s going on, Charles?” Arthur asks, his eyes crinkling with confusion.

“Dad…” Charlie huffs in discomfort. “Why didn’t you tell me about my inheritance?”

Arthur taps his finger against his lip as he contemplates his response. 

“Honestly, son, it’s not really my business.” he states. “I’m not a Prewett, so I left it up to your mother to decide how to handle it.”

Charlie takes a deep, calming breath to keep from shouting. The day has been very long, very irritating, and he can still feel the vestiges of whiskey encouraging his anger. 

I’m never letting Blaise choose our drinks again. 

“Did Mum ever tell you how much money she was withholding from our family by not allowing me to accept the inheritance?”

Charlie can practically hear Blaise shouting at him, ‘this is why you could never be a Slytherin!’

He would have a point. Finesse has never been my strong suit. 

Arthur cocks his head, his face a picture of confusion. 

“Money?” he repeats. “Charles, I believe you are mistaken. The Prewett inheritance involved a seat on the Wizengamot, and a family estate, which was burned to the ground in the First War. I think it hurt Molly to even consider bringing you there-”

“Did you ever bother to actually look at the papers which explained what I would inherit, Dad?”

Blaise would sick himself with exasperation if he was witness to how I’m handling this. Next time, I’m gonna bring him and make him do all the talking, even if it does entail introducing him as my boyfriend.

“No.” Arthur speaks slowly. “I left your mother alone with the Goblins after Fabian and Gideon’s funeral. Your Uncles’ will wasn’t any of my business-” 

“Right.” Charlie’s voice has climbed into a dangerously high-pitched range. “Of course it wasn’t. Because you’ve never handled the Weasley Patriarch duties in your life. Excellent!” 

“Now, hold on a minute, Charles-“ Arthur starts.

“No, Dad, I won’t.” Charlie snaps. “I will not hold on. How could you have let this go on? This family could have avoided being ridiculed as paupers if you had just bothered to ask your wife for a fucking clue.”

Arthur is visibly wilting with every word his son hurls at him.

“When I turned seventeen, Ron was still nine years old.” Charlie begins pacing. “He could have went to Hogwarts with robes that fit, and a wand of his own instead of Bill’s castoff, but no, Molly Weasley holds all the guns around here. The worst part is, that example is just the tip of the iceberg!”

“What is a gun?” Arthur asks desperately.

“Fuck!” Charlie cries out in exasperation, spinning on his heel and heading for the clear target of the lit up home he grew up in. Charlie casts aside the thought that he’ll regret the way he just railed at his father when he finally manages to calm down. His oblivious father isn’t the person he’s really angry at. 

Charlie won’t be leaving until he confronts the person who deserves it. 

“And Bill says he can’t leave her alone, apparently Fleur won’t take the floo- Charlie, what’s wrong?” Molly asks, her eyes wide as she sets down her wine glass and rises from the couch.

Ginny and Ron abandon their glasses as well, and make haste to retreat into the kitchen. George shuffles towards the staircase.

“Tell me why you withheld the money from me for so long.” Charlie demands. “I have been trying to come up with an excuse for you, a reason to explain this, but I cannot think of anything that justifies what you did.”

“I have no idea what you’re-“

“For Christ’s sake, Mum!” Charlie shouts. “Ginny almost died because Lucius Malfoy hid a trap for her in a dirty old book amongst the rest of her dirty old schoolbooks, which you claimed were all we could afford!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Molly points accusingly at her son, her hair beginning to escape from its updo.

“Ron almost cost him and Harry their lives trying to fight off a criminal with a broken wand, don’t you see that all of these situations might have been avoided if we weren’t so fucking poor?” Charlie demands.

“Don’t you dare take that tone of voice with me.” Molly snaps. “Just because you live away from home does not mean you get to-“

“So that’s what it is.” Charlie laughs without humor. “You really did all of this because you can’t stand the idea of one of your children holding rank over you?”

Molly’s face has turned red, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets as she takes a great heaving breath.

“You stop yelling at me this instant, Charles Weasley, or- or I’ll ground you for a month!” she threatens. “I’ll ground you for a month that you will spend relearning your manners until I deem you acceptable!”

“Unbelievable.” Charlie shakes his head as he steps back from her. “You are unbelievable. You know what, Mum?”

I might regret this later, but I definitely do not right now.

“I’m leaving.” Charlie states. “I’m going to go bugger my boyfriend on top of all the piles of money that you purposefully withheld from your own children, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do to stop me.”

“Charles Weasley, if you leave this house so help me I will cast you from this family!” Molly screeches.

The house is utterly still. Ron and Ginny, in hiding just beyond the doorway, pale in horror as they make eye contact with each other. 

“Just one little problem with that, Mum.” Charlie smiles as he tosses a handful of powder. “You’re not the head of this family.”

The shrieking in the living room is suddenly so severe, even George, who misses nothing, neglects to hear his brother shout, “Blaise Zabini’s Apartment!” He elects to continue climbing the stairs, his old bedroom the clear destination in mind. 

And Charlie disappears in a whirlwind of deep green flame, ignoring the mayhem erupting in his wake.


	5. Hermione is Adamant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

Pansy hasn’t worn traditional robes meant for witches since her Hogwarts graduation, almost two years ago.

Even that event occurred a year behind schedule. Pansy had been one of only a handful of students to return to the damaged castle following the Dark Lord’s defeat. Pansy predicts that the coming May will likely involve a tacky celebration of some sort to signal three years of a Voldemort-free magical Britain.

Out of all the Slytherins in the seventh year class, only Theo, Daphne, Draco and herself had returned to camp in the brand new eighth years dorm set up by the kitchens after the war. The returning Slytherins agreed it was their best chance to avoid being killed. However, Millie had been completely uninterested in provoking her anxiety beyond what felt absolutely necessary, Tracey had never returned following their fifth year, and Greg had checked himself into St. Mungo’s. 

On the wind of Hermione’s ardent advocacy, the wizarding hospital had instituted a new branch of healing directed solely towards treating emotional trauma. Greg had been one of the first patients of the new, mostly Muggleborn ‘therapists’, and he’s since refused to leave. Blaise hadn’t been required to graduate in order to receive his inheritance, so he’d told them all to fuck themselves and disappeared.

When the man returned from Italy a year later, it was with swelling coffers, dragon-hide boots, rampant alcoholism and a brand new friend in the form of a Weasley- but that was a subject Pansy tended to avoid. Was, before said Weasley suddenly became her business when he waltzed into her place of employment and nearly volleyed her into the floor. The very hard, completely impractical marble floor. 

Pansy touches her bruised hip and winces. She is tempted to disapparate and avoid the psychoanalysis she’s undoubtedly about to undergo at the hands of Mudblood Granger, but knows she can’t escape them if she tries. The terrible twosome. Her insufferable, overly intelligent best friends.

“You look awful, Granger.” Pansy smiles as she takes a seat at the glass café table, whose occupants were clearly waiting for her. “We need to redo your hair immediately, and maybe choose a color that isn’t vomit-inducing.”

“You look wonderful.” Hermione responds, sharing a smirk with her stupid partner in crime and tossing her pink curls over one shoulder.

“Truly stunning, Pans.” Draco agrees, taking a sip of what looks to her like some sort of abysmal Muggle coffee mixture. 

Why the Muggles can’t just leave coffee alone, she does not know.

“I can guess why I’ve been summoned here.” Pansy sighs, eyeing her friends with distrust. “A little bird named Blaise has loose lips.”

“Wonderful, talented lips, but rather loose, I agree.” Hermione snorts.

“Thank you for that, you filthy Mudblood.” Draco sniffs. “Just what I wanted with my cappuccino.” 

“You’re so welcome, dearest arse of mine.” the Muggleborn teases.

“I do have a rather fine arse.” Draco concedes. 

“I know.” she waggles her eyebrows.

Everyone had issues when they returned for eighth year, but Hermione endured intense public scrutiny for her reaction to the nightmare they’d all endured seventh year. For the first few months of eighth year, she had sex with a lot of people. A whole lot of people. So many people, in fact, that Ron Weasley had arrived to Hogwarts with the sole intention of screaming at her what a whore she’d become and how embarrassed she made him until McGonagall forced his exit. 

Pansy, being the most upstanding dormmate of all time, had approached Granger that evening and offered some fine words of support.

“I don’t blame you, Mudblood.” she’d said. “I’d be desperate to find other outlets too if my only option for an entire year had been the talents of that worthless slug.” 

Hermione had laughed so hard that she’d broke down in tears, and Pansy had found herself with an armful of what appeared to be a new best friend. Unsure of what exactly to do and weary of being hexed, Pansy relied on what she knew best- hair. Ever prepared, the Slytherin had pulled out a hair color potion she’d been experimenting with under portrait-Snape’s tutelage and offered to change Granger’s look for free. 

Hermione had sat right down at Pansy’s feet and nodded, sniffling all the while. When the girls had finally unveiled brand new, pitch-black tresses, Pansy stated that it looked horrible, and offered her condolences. Hermione had kissed her right on the mouth and told her she loved her and she was glad they could set aside their differences and be friends.

No matter how mean Pansy was, or how cruel her words became, Hermione refused to leave. The Slytherin could not get rid of her swotty, enthusiastic, cheerful new pal. Not even after she confessed what she had done during the War to survive, or even after she told the Muggleborn she hated her and always would hate her for the rest of her life in a fit of misplaced rage. And so Pansy had vowed that no one would be mean to Mudblood Granger but her from that point forward.

Draco was another, less dramatic story. The possibility of romance had fizzled out between him and Pansy once the War infiltrated Hogwarts and demanded all of their attention. The fumbling efforts they’d made in broom closets at fifteen no longer seemed to matter much after witnessing the deaths of almost everyone they’d ever loved. The only one of the Slytherin eighth years who hadn’t been orphaned was Daphne, and that was due to the great luck of her parents having avoided taking the Dark Lord’s mark, and their quick move to Brazil after the final confrontation.

There was something of a witch-hunt after the Battle of Hogwarts for anyone remotely connected to the losing side, and entire families had been snuffed out as a result. Daphne’s younger sister Astoria was killed in broad daylight that very summer in the middle of Diagon Alley. It was right around that time perfect Hermione Granger publicly lost it and lashed out. 

Neither Slytherin was quite sure of what exactly pushed Hermione over the edge, but she’d had something of a breakdown the week before they were all due to arrive at Hogwarts. Some sort of row had occurred between her and the Weasleys, and she’d arrived to school with an attitude that even Pansy could appreciate. Those circumstances had made Hermione unpopular within her own house, with only Neville remaining firm as her friend. The Slytherins, Ravenclaws, and Hufflepuffs had been too petrified to get too close. 

Everyone had heard of how Hermione had singlehandedly taken control of the way St. Mungo’s was electing to treat victims of war within the space of just three days. The Wizengamot quivers in fear of the day when the Muggleborn’s attention will turn to governmental issues. Not even Harry Potter himself could have erected change so quickly and efficiently, and she’d done it without a powerful family behind her. 

Nobody knew exactly what had happened in the boardroom at St. Mungo’s when Hermione barricaded it, but there were a handful of board members who coincidentally picked up and moved out of the country the second negotiations were over. Rumors of the incident ran rampant for months, during which the Muggleborn decided to sample every single person she fancied fucking. 

Despite becoming a legend in her own right, Hermione Granger kept everyone at arm’s length, even the wizards (and witches) she’d slept with. Though Harry publicly endorsed her healthcare efforts, he did not return to Hogwarts with his friend, and he announced an engagement to the Weasley girl that fall. Pansy supposes that must put a damper on things, when your remaining best friend proposes marriage to a family you despise. 

Pansy and Draco, orphaned and homeless, had struck up something of a dependent friendship upon the start of their eighth year- until Granger stuck around like a permanent stain and two miserable young adults became three. 

The two Slytherins had been sharing a bed platonically from the very first night of eighth year to ward off nightmares, but soon after Pansy’s hair-coloring encounter, Draco became jealous watching the two girls act thick as thieves. Pansy didn’t forbid him from infringing on her time with the Gryffindor, so Draco began to hang around. He wanted to know what exactly she had done to gain such a loyal friend. 

Draco spent months circling the table in the library the two girls frequently haunted without ever joining them, until Hermione asked Draco directly for his opinion while deciphering a rune. Never once had Granger yelled at Draco, or even questioned his presence- not even when they disagreed. Theo and Daphne were shocked when Draco began to speak above a whisper and even took to referring to Hermione as a Mudblood in the most affectionate tone any of them had ever heard. 

One morning, Pansy let herself in to Hermione’s room without knocking to sort through her clothes (because really, the room was always a mess), and she got a look at how Hermione spent her nights.

Pansy had known exactly when Hermione stopped sleeping with her harem of fans since she was present the night the Muggleborn began rejecting the owls that pecked at her window. However, Pansy had assumed, seeing no evidence, that her friend had no need for a method to ward off nightmares like the rest of them. As it turned out, that was untrue. When Pansy arrived to the sleeping girl’s room announced, she was completely confused by the scene that greeted her. 

Two metal wands were still clasped in Hermione’s scarred hands as she slept, and what looked to be a scarf was somehow being magicked out of a ball of yarn over the bed and onto the floor. Pansy, unsure if it would be safe to touch the metal wands, fetched Draco to accompany her in case she should need immediate healing assistance. 

Hermione had laughed so hard she’d fallen off the bed when she awoke to the two Slytherins using hand towels to avoid touching the knitting needles directly. She invited them to sit with her while she sleepily explained the concept of knitting, and had even let them test out the thick blankets she’d created in Gryffindor colors. 

Every day afterwards, Pansy and Draco would show up at her door at the crack of dawn with flimsy excuses and juicy gossip. Hermione would just smile as she watched them lounge on her bed in silk pajamas and hand-knitted socks.

Both Slytherins crafted rather imaginative excuses to remain in Granger’s cozy red room in the evening, wrapped in the green Afghans she knitted for them, until finally they gave up on all pretense and moved their toothbrushes and hair care supplies right in. The three friends lived in harmony throughout the spring. Draco spoke audibly in class for the first time, and Pansy managed to address a classmate without using an offensive slur. Hermione was credited for the remarkable improvement, and visible uptick in happiness amongst all the Slytherin eighth years.

The Muggleborn had actually teared up at graduation when the whole lot of snakes accosted her with expensive gifts to pay her back for the various knitted items she’d handed out. Theo has yet to be spotted without his deep green beanie since the day Hermione offered it. Sweating through her awful robes in the sweltering June heat while the school song played, Hermione was unable to pretend she wasn’t saddened by the thought of saying goodbye to the closeness she’d shared with her new friends. 

The very next morning following graduation, Granger had been rudely awoken in her flat by the sound of Draco flooing in and wandering around aimlessly on a mission to locate that delicious Muggle peanut butter. Pansy and Daphne had arrived in time, a new color potion in hand, to witness Hermione’s tears of joy when she got through her blue-haired skull that they weren’t just about to abandon her, not as long as she keeps peanut butter on hand. 

Hermione will always have them at her side as long as she allows it. 

“Well?” the Muggleborn in question prompts, focusing all of the attention on her closest female friend. “Blaise said you had a bit of a run-in with Charlie.”

“I’d call it assault, but I suppose ‘run-in’ will do.” Pansy huffs. “Bill wanted me to escort his sibling to see Griphook, but I… I paid a coworker to do it so I wouldn’t have to interact with another Weasley. Don’t even start on me about that, you know I can’t pretend it’s fine to be around any of them with the exception of Bill and Fleur. However, I unfortunately happened to be in the hallway at the exact moment the devil’s spawn was leaving, and he barreled right into me.” 

“What kind of sad Slytherin are you, not making sure he had already left before you went to see Griphook?” Draco shakes his head. “You bring disgrace to our good name.” 

“It’s not like I had an exact time frame or a copy of his schedule!” Pansy splutters. “It was three hours after Bill left the office that I decided to hand in the files and head home. Who spends three hours chatting it up when an inheritance is on the line? I thought he’d have already accepted it and headed home ages ago!”

“It probably doesn’t help matters that the inheritance was so significant.” Hermione takes a calm sip from her pink teacup. “If it had been a spot of extra money, Charlie probably would have spoken to Bill and been in and out of the bank within the hour. The Prewett account is a bit more complicated than that.”

“Great.” Pansy scoffs. “Even the Mudblood knows. I’m going to get fired if you people don’t learn to keep your mouths shut! Griphook was unimpressed by my nosing into Weasley’s file. He called it a ‘lack of decorum’, and docked my pay.”

“Do stop your racket.” Draco snickers. “We’re Unspeakables, Pansy. You know, the wizards in charge of studying magic itself? I think Granger and I can handle a little Ancient House drama.” 

“You also don’t need the job.” Hermione points out. “I know you’re afraid to return to magical society, but-“

“I’m not afraid.” Pansy counters. “I’m intelligent. You weren’t around the summer after the War, Granger. Our families were slaughtered in their homes. Draco, Theo, Daphne and I all had rooms reserved in St. Mungos in case one of the ‘friendly-fire’ hexes sent our way by your good chums managed to connect and finally off us.”

“I’m aware of the injustice you faced.” Hermione looks as serious as Pansy has ever seen her. “That is partially why I think it is important for you two to be seen in public. Nobody deserves to be punished for something out of his or her control. You deserve to walk the streets freely the same as anyone else.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mudblood.” Pansy snaps. “You being Muggleborn is not akin to us being the children of murderers.”

“You are not guilty of their crimes, Pansy.” Hermione states. “I will say it for the rest of our lives if I have to. None of you need to punish yourselves for simply existing. You are all welcome in our society, every last one of you, and anyone who says differently is not worth my spit, and is probably a coward.”

“Or they’re a Weasley.” Draco points out quietly. Hermione reaches over to take hold of his shaking hand. It always unbalances him to hear the two girls argue about the War.

“You almost joined that family, Granger.” Pansy crows. “Just imagine it. Hermione the housewife, with seven devil children to boot.”

“I would’ve killed myself long before that standard could be met.” the Gryffindor responds primly. She continues sipping at her tea with one hand, as the other is busy soothing Draco. The boy clutches her wrist with all the strength he can muster. 

“How reassuring.” Pansy drawls.

“What do you expect?” Hermione counters, narrowing her eyes. “My parents are permanently unable to recognize me as their daughter, Molly had near convinced me that marrying Ronald was my only hope at having a loving family, and everyone was assuring me that returning to Hogwarts would ruin my life.”

“Idiots.” Draco mumbles. “Imagine trying to keep Hermione from learning.”

Both girls smile in his direction, and though it is weak, he returns the expression.

“Don’t forget that Ron threatened to dump you if you went back.” Pansy winks.

Hermione rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Pansy, I’d almost forgotten. Just for the record, it’s not a threat since he actually went through with it. But while we’re on the subject of uncomfortable topics nobody likes to address, why don’t we set a date for tea in a wizarding café next week? We could invite the whole brood, make it a party.”

Neither Slytherin will meet her eyes.

“I thought so.” Hermione sighs. “It’s irrational and unfair how the children of Death Eaters are ostracized, but we can’t just sit back and take it. Nothing will change if you do exactly what those bigots want and keep hiding in Muggle cafes and jobs that require no contact with the public. I know how hard it is, but keep in mind that Vets like us- the people who matter- don’t have a thing to say, because they understand what both sides went through. Only idiots and cowards who hid in their homes hoping Harry would take out the enemy single-handedly have opinions about your presence.”

“They hate us, Mione.” Draco mutters. “They call us worthless and shout that we should be burned.”

“And they holler ‘whore’ after me when I’m seen with a man in public.” Hermione retorts. “You aren’t special.”

Draco cracks a real smile. “I guess not, Granger. Do people really still call after you like that? I thought we’d taken care of it.” His gaze is now directed at Pansy.

She raises her palms in defense. “You’ll want to speak to Blaise on that one. I thought he promised Theo would deal with it.”

“Oh, dear God.” Hermione rubs at her eyes. “You idiots are all going to be sent to Azkaban, I swear it.” 

“Only for you, Granger.” Pansy assures her. “Nobody else has done a thing to defend us, so they can all go hang.” 

Hermione sighs. “How is Theo doing, anyway?”

Pansy and Draco share a mischievous look. 

“Funny you should ask, because Daphne went over to check a few nights ago…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this is the first story I've ever posted, it's been sorta overwhelming to experience everything from the writer's point of view. I'm beyond thankful for all the kudos and comments. 
> 
> This chapter received some bad reactions when I first posted it (I started uploading TPP on here a few days after starting it on a different site), and the criticism was a little hard to hear. However, not everyone's gonna be a fan of where the story goes, and that's life. 
> 
> Good news is that I've officially caught up on uploading. From now on, I'll be posting new chapters on here the same day as the other site. I have no idea what'll come out when I sit down to write, but that's part of the fun of writing something like TPP. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your input, even if it's not what I necessarily want to hear. This story is an exercise for me to get comfortable sharing my writing, and that means getting comfortable hearing negative opinions as well. I'm just happy to continue sharing TPP with you all.
> 
> \--PBY


	6. Charlie is Concerned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to J.K. Rowling.

Charlie is unsurprised, but still exasperated when he almost steps right onto Blaise and his guest, who are entangled over a Boggle board in front of the fireplace.

“Hello to you, too.” Charlie mutters, ignoring the drunken giggling behind him as he manages to barricade himself in the kitchen with a few well-chosen wards. 

Bill had been the one to teach Charlie the basics of warding, and the younger Weasley has been adapting the spellwork ever since to fit his needs in Romania. One does not traipse through a dragon sanctuary without a lick of knowledge in self-defense and stealth tactics. 

Ever since third year at Hogwarts, Charlie had known he wanted to work with Dragons. Unfortunately, while his brief stint as a Dragon Wrangler had been fun, it didn’t provide nearly enough support for Charlie to feel financially stable. His childhood hadn’t been quite as worrying as his siblings’, but he could distinctly remember his Mum insisting he and Bill share a broom when they started sharing interest in flying. There hadn’t been money at the time to afford a second model. 

Being poor and being aware of it as a child, is like catching a cold that never really disappears as an adult. You avoid breathing out of a stuffy nose throughout the sickness so often that you stop realizing you’re doing it. As a child, you catch on very quickly and learn. Breathing through your mouth becomes an instinct and a habit rather than a conscious decision. Adulthood invites such habits along. Even though you may not have the cold anymore, you continue breathing through your mouth, distrustful that your nose won’t still be stuffy. 

Charlie always avoids taking chances with money- breathing through his nose, so to speak. He does not ever trust that his savings are enough. Dragon Wrangling for a career involved too much reliance on outside factors- weather, health, breeding success, fashion trends- for Charlie to feel comfortable enough to just breathe through his nose and live carelessly. So when Blaise Zambini approached the Hungarian Horntail paddock in Romania (where Charlie was busy shoveling dung into shipping containers) and hollered over the fence a much more lucrative job offer, Charlie was open to considering it. 

Of course, a more specific explanation was demanded of what exactly he would be in for as the redhead was interviewed over beef tripe soup and black bread in a local bar. 

“You’ll have to be brave.” Blaise had admitted, sucking down top-shelf Tuica like a bottle of it didn’t cost more than Charlie’s entire monthly salary. “But that’s why I’ve come after you. Gryffindors are brave.”

“How exactly did you find me?” Charlie questioned, raising his eyebrows.

Blaise waved away the query. “I have a friend who’s brill at tracking magical signatures. I figured out which Dragon sanctuary the ‘Hogwarts graduate with fire hair’ was working at by boozing the European Magical Creature Trade members, and then employed my associate to track you down once I arrived in this glorious country. I must say, there are many more acres than one would imagine in a Dragon sanctuary. I would’ve expired long before I ever could have made sense of the Romanian directions your coworkers kept trying to offer if I didn’t have Theo’s assistance.” 

“How’d you know which magical signature was mine?” Charlie asked. 

“Apparently, all Sacred Twenty-Eight families have their own unique style of magic, so we went ahead and followed the Weasley, so to speak.” Blaise sniggered.

“Alright.” Charlie sighed. “What kind of job would you be offering me?”

At this, Blaise set down his drink and leaned forward. His eyes seemed to glow with anticipation as he stared down his companion. Charlie got the immediate impression that the man opposite considered him an opponent. 

“I want you to collect Dragon hide for me to utilize in a fashion line I plan to design and market to the Wizarding public.” Blaise announced.

“It’s illegal to take Dragon hide from nationally-protected sanctuaries.” Charlie stated.

The Slytherin grinned. “It’s not illegal to collect Dragon hide from privately-owned ones.” 

At this statement, Charlie rolled his eyes. “There are no privately-owned sanctuaries. The law doesn’t allow for it-“

“International Magical Law prohibits wizards from obtaining ownership of Dragon Sanctuaries in any country which have a representative employed by the International Confederation of Wizards.” Blaise countered. “That makes it illegal for a sanctuary to be privately owned in Britain, but not in Romania.”

Charlie sat back in shock. “You’re telling me you’ve found a way around International Magical Law because Romania doesn’t currently have a representative in the ICW?”

Blaise was grinning so broadly, his cheeks must have suffered. “Precisely.”

“The Romanian Magical Republic will never allow it.” 

“Don’t fret!” Blaise waggled his slender index finger in the Gryffindor’s face. “I’ve already had my lawyers go through the official channels. In fact, I now own your place of employment. You’re already looking at your new boss.”

That statement was a bit too much for a sober man to take, and Charlie finally gave in and indulged in the drink Blaise had poured for him and then left neglected next to their modest meal. 

“And what will happen if they come to their senses and employ a Romanian representative to the ICW?” he demanded. 

Blaise snickered. “You act as if I’m a moron. I am a Slytherin, you know. I’ve taken care of that possibility. Should Romania employ a representative to the ICW, my sanctuary will be grandfathered in as a privately owned preserve that no one will be able to shut down without my explicit agreement.”

“How could you have possibly managed a coup like that?” Charlie asked faintly.

“I believe that is between myself and the esteemed President Antonescu.” Blaise smirked.

“She’s hard as Hungarian hide.” Charlie scoffed in disbelief. “One of the most terrifying witches in all of Eastern Europe!” 

“Indeed.” Blaise agreed. “But she has a bit of a soft spot for Italians, so it may seem.” 

“I’ll be damned.” Charlie mumbled. When Blaise raised his eyebrows in confusion, the older man sighed.

“It’s a Muggle saying.” he explained.

“I know Muggle sayings!” Blaise crowed. “I spent the entire fall and winter touring Muggle Europe.”

“You know…” Charlie tapped his lips as he struggled to remember. “I thought there was a Zabini in Ron’s grade. Shouldn’t you still be in school?” 

Blaise’s face abruptly closed off, his expression unyielding and harsh. 

“No.” he replied. “I inherited my share of the Zabini wealth on my seventeenth birthday, and this is how I want to invest it.”

“It takes millions of galleons to run a Dragon sanctuary.” Charlie pointed out. “Much more than most wizards have lying around in Gringotts.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” he retorted. “See? I know Muggle sayings.” 

Blaise went so far as to wink as he poured another glass for himself. “I actually have already spent my inheritance. I sunk it all into Muggle stocks.”

“Muggle- what the hell is stocks?” Charlie asked. 

“I daresay you shall find out, old boy.” Blaise clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s another Muggle saying. I really enjoy their absurd dialect.” 

“If agreed to this,” Charlie started, “How much would I earn a year?” 

He was down to his last concern, and both men knew it. 

Blaise’s eyes began to spark again as he neared the conclusion of their compromise. It occurred to Charlie that perhaps the man feels pleasure succeeding in business negotiations. Or maybe it’s just the persuasion that satisfies him.

“We’ll start at 25,000 galleons a year to start.” Blaise informed him.

“Excuse me,” Charlie stood shakily. “I may throw up.”

And that had been how Blaise managed to employ Charlie Weasley as his own personal Dragon hide collector, business advisor, and, most often than not, babysitter. For all of Blaise’s business success, he has the wisdom of a fifteen-year-old wanker. 

Despite Blaise having a habit of being a pain in his ass, Charlie enjoyed his first two years working for Zabini Corps immensely. Blaise bought out an entire floor of flats in Muggle London and managed to have them hooked up to the Floo system through some bribe or blackmail or adultery or other, all because Charlie complained he disliked having to use portkeys and wished he could be closer to home more often. 

Not too close. Not close enough for Molly to know his location. But close enough to see Bill, Fleur, and his charming little niece regularly. The Slytherin has no family, so he’s always included when Charlie visits. All his faults notwithstanding, Blaise has been the best friend Charlie’s ever had. He can even forgive the Slytherin for causing little Victoire to like him more than she likes her own Uncle Charlie. 

Blaise plans to finally release his line of Dragon hide fashion this coming summer season, and Charlie moved back to Britain through Christmas and for the spring to make sure it goes to plan. He’d also received an invitation to Ginny and Harry’s wedding in June, so it’d be the decent thing to stick around. Not to mention the Prewett inheritance, momentarily cast from the ring of important stuff inside of Charlie’s head as he scours Blaise’s kitchen for ingredients to a sandwich. 

All he can find, though he opens every single cabinet and drawer, is high class, half-drunk bottles of foreign alcohol. So perhaps it wasn’t coincidence that the flat they’d designated as Charlie’s has nothing but whiskey stocked within it, though he’d only left the flat under Blaise’s care for a few days. The bare apartment doesn’t feel like home yet despite the three months Charlie has lived there, not enough to call out for home in the Floo, but it’s still his home base. Blaise is always welcome there. Even if he’s drunk and struggling, which it is suddenly clear to Charlie, is typically the case. 

Cringing at the indecent evidence of his friend’s problem, Charlie wonders if it’d be more productive to confront the man now, when he’s impaired and distracted by his bendy Boggle partner, or later, when he’s hungover and whining. An obscene moan sounds through even the impressive wards Charlie erected around the kitchen. 

Later, it is. 

Charlie twists on his heel and apparates into the alley beside the apartment building, fully intent on obtaining some Thai takeout and constructing a plan to address Blaise’s drinking within the safety of his own flat. He also makes mental note to read over the inheritance agreement in depth, and make certain he’s prepared for his second appointment with the Goblins. 

For a moment, his mind drifts to Miss Parkinson. She had been dressed like a Muggle, in high heels and a tight skirt that did wonders for her figure. Charlie ponders where a Sacred Twenty-Eight daughter would have learned to dress like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Charlie’s eye has been caught by Pansy… and Harry’s planning to wed a Sacred Twenty-Eight daughter. I’m thinking next chapter will be Griphook Appointment #2, and perhaps we’ll even get a glimpse of Pansy’s extensive punishment. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> -PBY


	7. Pansy is Afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

“I am delighted with your interest in me, Griphook, but I truly am not qualified to be working with you directly.” Pansy simpers, refusing to even glance at the file cabinet with her name on it.

“Miss Parkinson,” the Goblin sighs as he eyes her. “Though I appreciate your flattery, any witch is qualified to sit still and scribe.”

Pansy clenches her teeth, even as she smiles. “But surely it would be a breach of confidentiality-“

“Breaching confidentiality would be sharing sensitive information you’ve learned at your place of employment with outside sources.” the Goblin states. “Now, unless you are looking to confess breaking the law in such a fashion, I believe it is perfectly acceptable for a Gringotts employee like yourself to take notes while I meet with a client of the bank.”

“Yes, sir.” Pansy agrees, already scheming her escape. 

The Goblins keep no windows in their offices, not even as magical décor to provide the illusion of being above ground, and so the only way in and out of each room is the warded door. Perhaps she can fake an illness? The intelligent thing to do would have been to nip into the horrid Weasley’s House of Horrors before work for some puking pastilles or whatever else they imbue the public with. Even if that method meant exposing herself undisguised in Diagon, at least she’d have a sound course of action to avoid this. 

Too late for that now. 

The floo chime is ringing, a discreet signal which alerts the account manager that their client has arrived. Pansy’s always been a phenomenal actress. Perhaps she can find a way out of this without any artificial help. Surely, anywhere in the world would be better than here, listening to a man who almost certainly took part in her parents’ murders while a scheming Goblin covertly tries to connive her into reading her father’s will. 

Pansy nearly scoffs aloud. As if she’d be that stupid.

Although, as Granger would say, the jury’s still out on that one, considering Pansy is working for a man who is not only directly under the Goblin she most wants to avoid, but who is also a member of the most dangerous family of all.

In terms of injustice and cruelty, not even the Malfoys could have held a match to the Weasleys. 

Pansy briefly ponders her usage of silly Muggle slang until an oversized Gryffindor lumbers into the office. She stiffens immediately, brought to such levels of discomfort that she almost forgets to greet their guest. Their client. 

The client being a Weasley notwithstanding, Peony Parkinson would have thrashed her daughter to within an inch of her life if she were alive to witness such appalling lack of manners. 

“Mr. Weasley.” Pansy greets the man smoothly, extending a hand with a false air of coolness. 

To her complete and utter surprise, rather than shaking her hand the plebian Muggle way, Charles Weasley bends to kiss her knuckles in perfect Pureblood fashion.

“Miss Parkinson.” he responds, a strange half-smile on his face as he turns to greet her boss. 

“Where did you learn that from?” Pansy speaks before her common sense can catch up to her curiosity, and she blushes when she recognizes that she nearly interrupted a Lord. Griphook uncharacteristically remains silent, and eyes the wizard in polite interest. 

Charles Weasley, commonly known as ‘Charlie’, answers her inquiry with a shrug, and the civilized Pureblood façade collapses. No Pureblood would ever shrug at a Lady in public. This realization calms Pansy down; though he may have appeared to be a Lord for a second, Charlie Weasley clearly is not one. He’s a scarred, imposing red-haired man in a plain robe that’s clearly seen better days and boots that appear to be caked with mud. At least, Pansy hopes it’s mud.

Griphook continues to observe the pair silently, following Pansy’s gaze and making assumptions of his own.

“Seeing as I work and occasionally live with Blaise Zabini, I do know my way around basic Pureblood decorum.” Charles sounds amused as he finally offers an answer.

“Perhaps not well enough.” Pansy retorts, lifting her nose into the air and waiting primly for Griphook’s instruction.

“Good day, Mr. Charlie.” the Goblin finally joins the party, perhaps to intercede before their client can start yelling at his employee.

“Good day to you as well, Griphook.” Charles offers a hand, which the account manager shakes uncomfortably.

“I beg Miss Parkinson’s pardon.” Griphook replies, taking his seat behind the shining wooden desk. “She will be transcribing our meeting today.”

“No worries.” Charles offers, and Pansy could choke at his outrageous manners. 

She returns to her chair, placed unobtrusively to the left of the seat intended for the client, and realizes she’s bound to receive a spectacular view of his profile from this angle. Once Pansy is seated, Charles follows suit, and they all turn to Griphook as Pansy retrieves a scroll and pen.

While quills are required for documents imbued with magic, like a legal agreement, these asinine notes can be done just as reluctantly with a pen. Probably more efficiently, as well. 

Pansy has never once been asked to sit in on a client meeting, and she’s practically buzzing with suspicion. This is more than just an extended punishment for sticking her nose into Griphook’s business. There’s a bigger plan at work here- she just isn’t privy to it.

Not one member hailing from the three families under Griphook’s care has bothered to sit down for a formal meeting since the end of the war. Pansy happens to know that Harry Potter conducts his business with Gringotts via owl (probably to avoid the same thing as her). 

In spite of this technicality, Pansy is still educated in proper procedure should a client actually appear. For example, she knows for a fact that it wouldn’t matter if Voldemort himself were to arrive on business; she still wouldn’t be invited inside the office. This meeting with Charlie Weasley is borderline illegal, but Goblins have been known to bend the wizarding law in order to achieve their goals. 

Somehow, someway, Griphook is trying to manipulate her by keeping her there. Maybe he thinks sitting in on a will reading will inspire her to do the same? The chances of that occurring are equal to the chances of Draco Malfoy learning to play the kazoo: slim to none. 

All half-baked escape maneuvers wither with one glance at Griphook’s expression. He’d sooner let her die than allow her to leave the room on false pretenses.

“Now, to business.” Griphook begins his volley. “Have you perused the agreement to your satisfaction, Mr. Charlie?”

“I have.” the man responds, leaning forward in his seat.

Pansy reacts by leaning towards the wall, preventing her face from being any closer to the client’s than necessary. When the man’s eyes dart in her direction, clearly having noticed the movement, Pansy crosses her ankles and pretends to be settling in comfortably.

He’s a bit more aware of his surroundings than one would expect from a great hulking imbecile. 

“And do you wish to proceed with the agreement, and officially accept your inheritance?” Griphook places both hands gently upon his desktop. 

“I do.” Charles nods with complete certainty. Pansy resists the urge to sneer as she writes, Weasley finally agrees to cease being poor.

No one ever said she had to remain impartial. These notes are cage fodder, anyways. Griphook is likely just using them as a pretense to discourage her escape. He’ll undoubtedly burn them in the night to prevent the survival of any evidence that he broke protocol. 

“Splendid.” Griphook offers an expression that Pansy recognizes to be the Goblin version of a smile. “Now, we will begin with your signing that initial document outlining the terms of accepting a magical inheritance. Miss-?”

Pansy’s already moving to fetch the client a quill. There’s no need for prompting when a woman like Peony Parkinson has raised you. Pansy could host this brute with both hands tied behind her back, her wand in her mouth, and still look like a darling.

Of course, as all of the Gringotts blood quills are kept under strict security, they are unable to be summoned via wand. Pansy has to trot across the office and personally retrieve one from the lockbox, which requires the bare skin of a Gringotts employee’s hand to open. The wards are able to identify employee-specific magic. The black quills are lined up neatly inside on a velvet bed, and Pansy selects the sharpest-looking option before flouncing over to Charlie Weasley. 

The wizard’s uneven skin brushes against her own as he fumbles to accept her offering, and Pansy can’t help but quickly snatch her hand out of his reach. Charlie looks up at her in confusion, but she just huffs and clenches her fists as she returns to her seat. 

Pansy may never again be comfortable with unanticipated contact as long as she lives, but she surely is not obligated to pretend to be, especially not when it’s a Weasley ignoring her personal boundaries. 

“Why do I have to use a blood quill?” Charlie questions, returning his attention to the ringleader of this little circus. 

“It is a magically binding agreement.” Griphook explains, steepling his fingers as he considers how to answer. “By using your blood to sign such a document, Gringotts can immediately determine whether you are a worthy Heir, and the proceedings may then advance without delay. The Prewett magic will also recognize your authority.” 

“How will we know if the document accepts me?” Charlie asks in a tone that conveys clear doubt. Pansy notes that his hand remains steady as he signs, despite the pain he must be experiencing. 

“That would be how.” Gringotts gestures to the agreement in question, which has chosen that moment to glow gold and roll up with a snap. “May I?” 

Charles hands over the bound scroll, which Griphook deposits directly into the cabinet reserved for the Prewetts. 

“It’ll file itself.” the Goblin assures them, which snaps Pansy out of her distracted awe. She rushes to record all that she’d neglected to while watching the agreement accept their client as a worthy Heir. 

“So, now what?” Charlie questions, crossing his arms. 

Pansy can’t help but eye the absurd way the threadbare sleeves of the man’s robes stretch over his prominent muscles. How pitiful that a Lord of a Most Noble and Ancient family would look so uncouth in front of a Lady. Most respectable wizards wear robes much looser on the arms and shoulders, and in much more attractive fabrics. 

Most respectable wizards are also far less fit than this one. Even Pansy can’t disagree with that train of thought. Of course, the new Lord Charles Prewett is far less fit when you tack ‘murderer’ onto his title. 

“Now, Mr. Charlie, we must address how you prefer to handle the legal proceedings.” Griphook explains. “In order to legally accept your Lordship under the laws upheld by the Ministry of Magic, you must present yourself to the Wizengamot and allow any outstanding debts or contracts to be collected.” 

“I have no debts or contracts.” Charlie argues.

“I have no doubt of your sincerity.” the Goblin placates his client. “However, the wizard law exists to address any wrongdoings of your predecessors which were not settled before their deaths. That is my interpretation, of course. Please excuse me if as a Goblin, I am misinterpreting the business of wizards.” Griphook’s tone of voice has deteriorated into a snarl. 

“Wouldn’t any wrongdoings of my predecessors have already been tried and collected upon?” Charlie inquires. “It’s not like my uncles were alive to defend themselves.”

“It is Goblin policy to prevent wizard interference at Gringotts without the express permission of the account holder.” Griphook’s expression has turned cruel, though he is smiling. “The Prewett account has been in stasis since the moment the previous Lords’ will was read, as per their wishes. Anyone seeking retribution has been compelled to wait for the new Heir’s presentation.” 

“How soon must I appear in court?” Charlie begins tapping his foot on the marble floor. Pansy cringes with each persistent smack.

“I will set an appointment for you when you’ve ascertained a suitable date.” Griphook assures his client. “Though you have not been legally declared the new Lord Prewett by the Ministry, you have been declared the rightful Heir by Gringotts, so we may begin discussing your new holdings immediately.” 

“Hold on a second,” Charlie holds up his hands. “How long do I have to prepare before I’m obligated to go before the Wizengamot?” 

“You must present yourself in the next seven days.” Griphook replies.

“Honestly, I’ve never even heard of a Lord presentation. I don’t have the first idea of how to prepare for that.” Charlie admits, raking his hand through his hair. 

“You could start by purchasing some new robes.” Pansy sniffs, immediately cringing at her gaffe and looking to her boss for his reaction. 

Griphook smiles. “Why, Miss Parkinson, I’ve just had a splendid idea! Seeing as you know the political world of wizards so intimately, why don’t you escort Mr. Charlie to make certain he obtains everything he needs?”

“I believe my social calendar is full.” Pansy states plainly, internally bristling with anger.

“Surely, Miss Parkinson, no other Gringotts employee would be so useful to our esteemed client. You will prepare him for his presentation.” Griphook orders.

“Or what?” Pansy scoffs. “You’ll fire me?”

“It is a distinct possibility.” the Goblin snaps.

“Well, you definitely can’t fire me if I’m dead!” Pansy shrieks. “Which is almost certainly what I’ll be if I go along with that absurd idea.” 

“Jesus Christ, Pansy.” Charlie turns to face her exclusively, his expression beseeching. “You think I’m going to hurt you?”

Pansy’s lip quivers, and she immediately shuts down her expression, unwilling to admit the fear that is twisting her stomach into knots. 

“The appropriate way to address me is Miss Parkinson or Miss Pansy, and it’s rather more to do with everyone else.” she sniffs, attempting to regain an air of superiority. “What would your precious siblings do if they saw you in public with the child of a Death Eater?”

Charlie has been utterly flabbergasted by everything that is leaving her mouth, but at this remark, he actually laughs. 

“You really think my siblings would be able to overpower me?” Charlie snorts. “Talk about an absurd idea. I wrangle Dragons for a living!”

“And they murdered my parents.”

Even Griphook is struck silent after that statement. Pansy breathes quickly, panic exploding in her chest, and Charlie’s expression is closed off and unreadable.

“Why would you say that?” he eventually asks, leveling a hard gaze directly into her.

“If I may,” Griphook interrupts, “The Parkinsons were one of many families targeted by unknown assailants after the conclusion of your wizard war. It was a terrible tragedy, and a great loss. Seeing as how danger may persist for any remaining members of said families, I am entrusting that you will not risk the safety of my employee, Mr. Charlie.”

Anger is radiating out of the wizard, so much so that Pansy can practically taste his magic as he quickly gets to his feet.

“I resent the implication that I would allow any harm to come to a Gringotts employee who is, for all intents and purposes, my responsibility.”

Charlie turns to speak to Pansy, and is met by the tip of her wand. He raises his hands in careful surrender, eyeing how she shakes even as she readies to defend herself. 

“Lower your wand at once!” Griphook snaps.

“My most sincere apologies, Sir.” Pansy speaks quietly, gradually retracting her wand and replacing it up her sleeve.

“Griphook, you have my word that no one will harm a hair on Miss Parkinson’s precious little head while she is in my presence.” Charlie states in a hard tone, eyeing the Goblin in question as if he’s just daring him to doubt the promise. 

“I shall hold you to that, Mr. Charlie.” Griphook steps around the desk to offer his hand.

Charlie shakes it solemnly, and then turns to face Pansy. “Miss Parkinson, I apologize for any action of mine that scared you.” 

“I accept your apology.” she mumbles, frowning at the floor.

“Would you be willing to meet me tomorrow so I can start preparing for my- er, presentation?” Charles asks, making a clear effort to appear non-threatening.

“Fine.” Pansy huffs, toeing her high heel into the floor and creating a scuff. “Where?”

“How about in front of Flourish and Blotts around noon?” Charlie suggests.

Pansy could slap him, she really could.

“No!” she has to take a deep breath and lower her voice, lest she start shouting. “I’m not- no. No public places. We have to meet at your house, Mr. Weasley.”

“…Alright.” Charlie frowns, confusion evident on his face. “How about you just floo over to Blaise’s flat, and I can collect you from there?”

“I suppose that’s acceptable.” Pansy crosses her arms tightly over her chest.

“Okay.” Charlie stays put right where he’s standing, intending to force her to meet his eyes. 

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Charlie.” Griphook dismisses him from the office. “I daresay a wizard of your caliber can find your way back to the floo station?”

“Yes.” Charlie sighs. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, too. I’ll see you tomorrow, Miss Parkinson.”

“Safe travels and good day to you, Mr. Weasley.” she whispers.

As soon as Charlie leaves the room, the door shuts firmly behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlie and Pansy: they’re finally forced to interact! Pansy definitely revealed a bit more about herself than she intended. Poor Pansy. Good news is that Charlie’s collecting the pieces of a puzzle, and eventually, he’ll manage to put it all together….
> 
> I’m always happy to hear what you think. Feel free to leave any suggestions or comments!
> 
> -PBY


	8. Peony is Unforgiveable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

As a little girl, before she was old enough to handle a wand, Pansy was delightful. She was the favorite charge of all the children her governesses had ever attended to, and not even Narcissa Malfoy could find fault in her precise grasp of etiquette at the tender age of seven. Unfortunately, Peony Parkinson did not see a sweet daughter with intense ambition to please her parents. 

Voldemort still lurked at the edges of all of his followers’ minds after his first disappearance, and the Death Eaters, so passionate for their cause, withered away into misery as the years went on without their leader. Peony was ravaged by the first war and saw an opportunity to turn a little girl into something useful. She knew her Lord would return, and she wanted to be ready to present the perfect follower when he did.

Pansy found it hard enough being sorted into Slytherin, per her parents’ orders, and discovering that the rest of the school would hate her. That abuse alone could have pushed her into loathing Dumbledore and his hypocritical supporters. The clincher, however, was the approval she earned from her parents when they learned of her Sorting. 

Pansy received a letter from her father her first week of attending Hogwarts that expressed his pride in her. She kept that letter hidden in her nightstand at the Parkinson Manor for years, and whenever her father was away, she would read his formal words and love him for what little emotion he was able to express. If being Slytherin meant being loved by them, then she would be the quintessential Slytherin. Being hexed to tears by older students in red and gold ties meant nothing after that. In fact, she suddenly felt motivated to learn hexes to send in return. 

Pansy never once heard her parents say they loved her. Edmund Parkinson had become uninterested in his daughter after Voldemort’s demise, too consumed by his own despair to bother with her. Peony was therefore given sole control over their child’s upbringing. Pansy’s mother became a tyrant. 

Even so, she can never bring herself to feel too badly about her childhood. Not when Draco had it so much worse. When he returned home after their first year and Lucius Malfoy discovered that his Heir had been narrowly beaten in every exam by a Mudblood, he was punished with a branding iron. Eleven-year-old Draco bled for almost two days before Narcissa had the sense to call a trusted mediwitch to the household, a Slytherin girl from the woman’s own class who she was certain would ask no questions about her son’s horrifying injury.

Pansy’s punishment was less severe. For every class in which a witch outside of Slytherin outscored Pansy, she received ten lashes to her fingers with her mother’s prized cane. The piece is considered an heirloom, and was handed down the Parkinson line for generations to be used on disobedient daughters. Peony had endured it as a child on her back, and figured it merciful to grant her daughter the mercy of mere broken fingers. 

Between canings, the eleven-year-old’s hands were intentionally healed with Parkinson magic; Pansy wouldn’t learn why until much later. Having taken seven courses in her first year, Pansy spent seven hours being punished by her dear mother and the family cane. Eight months later, when she returned for Christmas break without a betrothal promise from Draco Malfoy, Pansy underwent a disturbing realization. 

Because Peony had used family magic to draw out the pain and heal the injuries of that first caning, she now held the power to replicate the feeling of the injury at any moment with a simple flick of her wand. This threat would affect Pansy for the rest of her life, long after her parents were dead. It would also breed hate in her heart for her parents, for her father’s unwillingness to step in and for her mother’s rampant anger. Pansy and Draco quickly began taking their indignation out on their classmates. 

Sweet little Pansy, so intelligent and quick to please, now sought to cause everyone else the ache she felt in her own soul. She made sure to never disappoint her mother again. Peony could not have been more pleased with her daughter’s efforts. 

Not all Death Eater parents punished like the Parkinsons and Malfoys, or so other Slytherins claimed. Theo swore up and down that his father would only ever punish him by assigning passages from obscure magical books, and then ignoring his son whenever Theo was unable to grasp the concepts. 

Daphne and Astoria’s parents would punish misbehavior with more etiquette lessons. Vincent and Gregory were assigned manual labor whenever they put a toe out of line, which actually is considered quite harsh of a deal in Pureblood families. 

Of course, not every Sacred child got off as easily. Millie’s mother would withhold food from her whenever she misbehaved. Tracey never undressed in front of her dormmates, and thanks to disgusting rumors about her father, none of the other girls ever felt brave enough to ask why. 

Blaise’s mother was never present enough to punish his wrongdoings, and after her death at the start of the second war, the responsibility of parenting the boy fell entirely to Severus Snape. The Head of House enjoyed watching his charge scream out in pure frustration while attempting to clean cauldrons without magic. 

Blaise would swear up and down to anyone in hearing distance that he hated Severus Snape with every spark of magic in his body, but that sentiment proved to be untrue after the Battle of Hogwarts. Pansy found her friend in a total tailspin when she checked on him after he skipped the hated Headmaster’s funeral. Blaise disappeared for an entire school year not long after. 

A lot of children arrived to Slytherin quite battered in the years following Voldemort’s first defeat. Most Pureblood families fought for the wrong side in the first war, and the loss of their almighty leader at the hands of a baby twisted arrogant Death Eaters consumed with the conceit of youth into monstrous parents intent on proving their supremacy. 

The children felt it. And they were turned from ambitious young students into something very, very cruel. 

The Slytherins began fighting back against the bigotry in Hogwarts that had inspired their parents to join Voldemort. They hexed the Gryffindors preemptively, they questioned the biased teachers’ authority, and they waited desperately for the day when they could finally do something about their miserable situations. When Voldemort was permanently defeated, it seemed as though the time had come. Finally, they could confront their parents and try to understand their brutality, and maybe attempt to forgive them for it. 

As much as the Slytherins might have hated their parents, they still cry for the loss of them. Peony Parkinson forgave no mistake, but she also taught her daughter how to style her hair. Pansy can almost taste her mother’s sweet perfume filling the Lady Parkinson’s suite on warm summer nights at the Manor, when Peony would gossip to her daughter as she brushed out her dark tresses. Pansy can almost feel the twist in her stomach of how excited she would be as a child when her father returned home from business and trekked inelegantly up the staircase, and she would know he was home safe.

Her mother was a bitch, and should have never been a parent, but she was the first person to ever call Pansy beautiful and mean it. With her slender fingers deep in Pansy’s updo, her familiar eyes glittering proudly in the mirror, Peony made her daughter feel invincible. Pansy will never forget that moment. 

For many months after the burnings, Pansy wished her mother had survived so she could tell her how much she hates her. She wished she could have a chance to rage at her mother for all the horrible things a child should never be put through that Peony inflicted on her, and perhaps even hit her mother, so she would hurt like Pansy had hurt for all those years.

It destroys a child to know that the person who is supposed to love them would cause such them such pain. Hatred and misery clouded Pansy’s emotional capability for months after her parent’s deaths. It was a long time before Pansy realized that while she’ll never get a chance to tell her mother she hates her, she’ll also never get a chance to tell her she loves her, either. 

Pansy will never again sit at her mother’s vanity, watching with wide eyes as Peony curls her hair and calls her beautiful. She will never again smell that comforting perfume, and bask in the warm summer air surrounding her home and think that nobody can possibly be as happy as she. She will never hear her father’s footsteps on the stairs again. Peony and Edmund had their crimes to answer for, but that could have turned into something good, with time.

The precious followers of Dumbledore burned them all before anyone had a chance to find out. Not a single one of the Slytherins got the chance to repair relationships with their Death Eater parents. No one suspected to be one of His was spared from the mass executions, and if the assumed Death Eaters couldn’t be located, as was the case for the Greengrasses, their child was butchered in their place. 

The Ministry, under the new rule of Order members, did nothing at all. The Aurors weren’t even sent to investigate, though members of upstanding families were being massacred in their beds. Molly Weasley was quoted to have called the burnings ‘due justice’ when asked for comment by a gaggle of reporters. When prodded if she thought the unknown culprits should face trial for the many acts of arson and murder, she suggested they instead be given awards. 

‘Heros should be honored’, she had said. ‘Those animals deserve to feel the misery they inflicted on good people for themselves, and the families of the Death Eaters’ many victims should have the right to do what they feel is best to ensure justice is served’. 

So while Pansy hates her parents for all the shit they put her through, she hates the Weasleys more. She hates them for all the rejection she felt from their children as a Hogwarts student for the sole crime of being in Slytherin. She hates the Order allies for all of their hypocrisy when they were unsatisfied with the death of Voldemort and elected to continue killing, starting with her parents. 

She hates them for the pain they caused the children of the murdered when they burned down estates that had housed Noble families for centuries. Pansy doesn’t even have a picture of her parents. The memory of her aristocratic father with his strong hands and piercing eyes, of her lovely mother with her dark hair and striking lips, of the house that seemed like a castle fit for a princess, blurs further in her mind with each passing year. 

Every reminder of the good moments in her childhood burned. There will come a day where she will remember nothing but the pain in her fingers and the hatred forced into her heart, and she will never forgive them for that. 

Pansy’s fingers falter as she pins up her hair. They still shake whenever she thinks of her mother’s special brand of torment, and of how she’ll never have the chance to know who Peony might have been once separated from Voldemort’s authority. Pansy wills the anger rearing in her chest to calm by taking deep, soothing breaths. 

Today is the day she will help Charlie Weasley prepare for his presentation. She will be calm, poised, and perfect. She will not think of what his family has done to her. 

The winning side wanted to purge the magical community of the monsters they believed responsible for war. In doing so, they orphaned children who might have found forgiveness in their hearts for their parents, if given the chance. Those families who had fallen prey to the Dark Lord’s influence could have been turned into something good. 

But now, Pansy will never know why her parents followed the Dark Lord. She will never be able to forgive herself for being their daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a lot out of me. My eyes are swimming, and I can’t bear the thought of trying to revise or even read this over, so I hope it’s not too messy. Let me know what you think! 
> 
> -PBY


	9. Blaise is Excited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter entirely.

Charlie was suspicious the first time Blaise invaded his space. Having no bias against men who prefer men, it didn’t cause Charlie discomfort, but it certainly resulted in distrust. Why would a man as wealthy, charming, and quite honestly, good looking as Blaise Zabini be so eager to frequent Charlie’s living quarters? Blaise could have his pick of single men, and he must have known that Charlie prefers the company of women. 

Yet, Blaise tailed Charlie as they toured the Dragon keep for the first time with a loyalty befitting of a Hufflepuff. He wouldn’t leave once Charlie returned to the employee apartments, making himself quite at home on the cheap furniture and ordering Charlie to be a ‘good pal’ and make tea. Like clockwork, Blaise would show up every morning, and reluctantly depart most nights. For months it went on with no explanation. 

Some nights, Blaise would be too impaired to walk, and he’d sleep right there on the sofa, eerily cheerful when he’d wake in the morning to the smell of breakfast. Charlie had assumed his new boss was a drinker based on his behavior at the interview attitude alone, but he soon understood that Blaise’s habit went far beyond casual indulgence. 

The only thing that seemed to help in those first few months was distraction. Charlie heaped loads of decisions onto Blaise, insistent that the young Lord take a personal role in the sanctuary. He personally introduced his new boss to every living creature in the vicinity, and made certain Blaise was present whenever a birth took place. He held firm that it was completely necessary for Blaise to interview all of his coworkers directly. 

It was a few months later, during a rampant thunderstorm, when Charlie got it. The real trick to calming Blaise is to be certain he is never left alone. The presence of another person keeps the veteran mostly settled and functional, even if there is nothing stimulating to occupy his attention. 

On that stormy night, following a rare bout of tears and the accidental smashing of a priceless crystal tea set, Charlie finally grasped that Blaise is terrified of abandonment. The booming thunderstorm vividly reminded him of the war, and the whiskey bottle acts as a lifeline against the impending doom of isolation. 

Whether Blaise fears isolation in death, or isolation in survival, Charlie isn’t sure, but he knows that being there for a friend who is hurting is worth the annoyance of having an uninvited houseguest. 

So Charlie tolerates Blaise’s constant infringement on his privacy and invasion of his personal boundaries. Everyone deals with things in their own way, and Blaise’s method is one that Charlie can mostly endure. The drinking can be improved upon, but as his father would say, these things take time. 

Of course, the last thing Charlie wants on the morning of Pansy Parkinson’s imminent arrival to his flat is for Tornado Blaise to wreak havoc on him. 

“Good God, I am spooked.” Blaise complains, plowing into the bathroom in utter ignorance of Charlie’s impropriety. “Your closet is just dreadful.” 

The older man sighs, and pulls aside the shower curtain to speak to the Slytherin directly.

“We’ve talked about this, Blaise.” Charlie reprimands him.

“Yes, yes,” Blaise takes a languid seat on the toilet, waving away the familiar lecture. “I know the powerdrill. I’m supposed to respect your locking charm if you are inside of the powder room.” 

“Correct.” Charlie raises an eyebrow at him.

Blaise smiles beatifically. “I’ve laid out an outfit for you that is befitting of a Lord.”

The evasion tactic works. “Blaise!”

“Before you reject it,” Blaise sits forward, narrowly avoiding a spray of water as Charlie jerks the curtain shut and scrubs at his scalp violently. “I feel obliged to inform you that it is a formal gift from the Most Noble and Ancient House of Zabini, and to refuse such an offering would instigate a blood feud between our families.” 

“You sodding bastard.” Charlie mumbles. “You really would, too.”

“Right as rain, old boy!” Blaise snickers. “Now hurry up your procrastinating, or wanking, or whatever it is you’re doing in there that’s taking a half hour. I want to get you nice and dressed up before Pansy arrives.”

“We agreed to meet over an hour from now.” Charlie protests, casting a wandless tempus charm. 

It’s not often that Charlie uses this skill, but in order to be a successful Dragon Wrangler, there are some times you simply must be able to do magic without aid. You never know what could happen once you enter a Dragon paddock. 

“You sweet, naïve fool.” Blaise sighs. “Pansy always arrives forty five minutes early to her engagements. It makes her feel powerful to catch the host off guard.” 

“Wonderful.” Charlie spits out a stream of water, which splatters against the tiled wall. 

“So, chip chop!” Blaise actually claps just beyond the curtain. “I am going to go make sure it’s set up.” 

It’s been a while since Charlie heard that level of excitement coming out of that man’s mouth. He can’t help but smile as he towels his face and shakes his hair, causing water droplets to shoot all over the room. Now that the rhythmic pounding of water has stopped, he can hear his friend pacing just beyond the bathroom door. Even if the outfit is horrible, a little enthusiasm could do wonders for Blaise’s confidence, and Charlie knows it.

With that in mind, he dries the rest of himself efficiently and loops the towel around his waist. Since they’re currently in Britain, Blaise couldn’t have wandered much farther than Madam Malkin’s… right?

“Alright.” Charlie calls out as he emerges. “I’m ready to see- oh, wow.”

Blaise’s beam could split his whole face in half.

“Yeah?” he whispers, eyes boring into Charlie’s.

The older man cannot help but grin as he takes it all in. “I didn’t realize you made the outfit yourself.”

It is a thing of beauty, and a style that Charlie recognizes immediately. This is something straight out of Blaise’s talented fingers, which Charlie has seen working many a time with charcoal on paper, but never rendering an idea in reality. The talent he has is staggering, Charlie thinks. 

The outfit is made primarily out of leather, with a clear influence from the typical Dragon Wrangler uniform. Dragon Wranglers wear trousers and open robes which only hang to their calves, rather than the full dress style of Pureblood wizards. 

On these robes, the tight Dragon hide protecting the shoulders and waist is dyed black, and looks supple enough to work with in the field. The fabric of the robes has been cut so skillfully, it’s bound to make even a hunkering man like Charlie look elegant. 

“Remind me again why you haven’t started taking orders for your clothing line.” Charlie claps a hand on his boss’s shoulder and squeezes tightly. The answering smile is brilliant. 

“Well, I’m hoping to get some free advertising from Britain’s newest Lord, obviously.” Blaise twitters. “Now, get dressed! I’m dying to see how it looks when worn.”

Charlie waits until his friend has skipped outside the bedroom limits, and then slams the door shut and erects an impressive set of wards. Blaise’s patience is finicky at the best of times, and the man is surely anxious to see how his first creation has turned out. 

It only takes a few minutes to prod and pull until every piece is where it should be, and then Charlie takes a moment to look into the mirror. 

Blaise is an artist. There’s no way around it.

“Charlie Weasley!” Blaise pounds on the door. “Where’s my favorite model?”

If modeling with gusto is what it takes to convince Blaise of his gratitude and appreciation of such a wonderful gift, than modeling is what Charlie is going to do. He’ll even do it with flair. 

“Lord Blaise Zabini,” Charlie flings open the door dramatically, striking a ridiculous pose. “You have done wonders for my figure.”

“No one would argue with that.” 

Charlie peeks out into what he assumed to be his one-person audience, and realizes that Blaise’s prediction has unfortunately come true in the form of an early, and snickering Pansy Parkinson. 

“Well,” Charlie shrugs, “Great art deserves to be appreciated.” And then he affects a stance so outlandish, it would cause Narcissa Malfoy to snort. 

Blaise cackles so hard he nearly slides off his chair and onto the floor, Pansy’s entire face has transformed into something bright as she giggles, and Charlie feels warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with embarrassment. 

“Wonderful, old boy!” Blaise collects himself, coming forward to enclose Charlie in a hug, saying a lot more with his shaking hands and tentative embrace than he ever could with words. 

Charlie wills all of the comfort in the world to be transported into his friend. Blaise deserves a bit of happiness, even for just a moment. Even though Pansy Parkinson is watching the scene unfold with an unsure expression on her face, caught between residual laughter and sadness. Even though Charlie is certain that once he departs, Blaise will nurse a drink to drive away his ever-present fear of solitude. 

“You’re wonderful, Blaise.” Charlie grins, gesturing at his stylish clothing. “I must accept such a precious gift, of course, on behalf of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett.” 

Blaise bows, and Charlie recognizes the motion as something weighted in tradition and familiarity.

“As Lord Zabini, I thank you.” Blaise takes his hand and shakes it lightly; Charlie squeezes it and slings an arm around his shoulders.

Some creatures just need to feel someone there, even if there isn’t anything specific you can do to help them. Charlie understood the full implications of this phenomenon following the first death of a newborn Dragon he bore witness to. The mother was so distraught, Charlie feared they’d have to kill her to subdue her violent grief. 

Surprisingly, when his coworkers sprang into action, it wasn’t to pacify her. The Wranglers immediately ordered for an emergency broadcast to be sent out to all other sanctuaries seeking orphaned young of the same species. They left the poor Dragon to pillage her paddock to her heart’s content in the meantime. 

When a struggling rescued newborn named Brindle finally arrived from Sweden, Charlie feared the worst reaction from their grieving charge. Instead, he was left gobsmacked as the mother accepted the baby under her wings without any hesitation. She seemed, for lack of a better word, relieved. The longer Brindle slept next to her, the quieter the mother became, until tears no longer leaked from her eyes, and the Wranglers were able to enter her territory peacefully once more. 

Blaise reminds Charlie of that mother whenever he reveals his grief. All it takes is a touch of reassurance, the feeling of someone being there for him, to remind him of the good in the world. It cannot erase his anguish, but it can calm his anger. 

“Are you ready to set out, Miss Pansy?” Charlie extends his arm to her politely.

Pansy bites her lip, forcing herself to lower her shoulders and straighten her posture as she regards him.

“Unfortunately, I am not comfortable venturing into the wizarding public, so I’ve compiled a list of items for you to purchase-“

“Forgive my interruption,” Charlie speaks over her, “But quite frankly, that is bullshit. I need your help, and it cannot be given remotely. A set of pure silver cufflinks engraved with the Prewett crest?”

Charlie has grabbed the list clutched between her sharp nails, and is growing more and more exasperated the more he read through it.

“I don’t even know the Prewett family crest!” he protests, gesturing dramatically in an attempt at humor.

Pansy, despite herself, gives in and rolls her eyes. “You are hopeless, Mr. Weasley.”

“It’s Charlie.” he offers his most charming grin. “How about I stake my life and entire inheritance on your safety?”

Both of his guests affect an expression of revulsion. 

“Don’t even joke!” Pansy hisses, shuddering as if something rotten is floating towards her. “You sound like a fucking fool.”

“Miss Pansy Parkinson,” Charlie speaks seriously to her, ignoring the sharpness of her words. “I am not joking. I will return you here safely once I have purchased all of this ridiculous stuff that nobody needs, or I will die trying.”

She shares a look with Blaise, who then grimaces as he glares down at his pressed trousers. Charlie clenches his fist, resentment building in his stomach for the people who have made the streets unsafe for all witches and wizards to roam. The guilty went to Azakaban three years ago. As far as he’s concerned, this supposed punishing of innocent family members is completely ridiculous. 

“You do not understand, Mr. Charlie.” Pansy speaks clearly, but the tenor of her voice has begun to shake. “It isn’t safe for me to go to these places. It isn’t safe for you to accompany me there.”

“Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Charlie states, enjoying the small smile that twists Blaise’s lips. 

Pansy clearly doesn’t get the reference, but she seems impressed by his fervor anyways. Her dark eyes, carefully made up, look especially wide as she looks him up and down and crosses her arms. 

She’s wearing witch’s robes today, though they are rather short, more of the style he’s seen on witches in France than the conservative attire in Britain. It’s the first day of the year that has truly felt like spring, and Charlie thinks to himself that the light purple fabric of her outfit looks rather fetching on her as it flutters, though there is no breeze in his living room.

“Maybe you should go, Pansy.” Blaise mumbles. “Maybe… maybe it would help if they saw you out there with a Weasley. Maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

Charlie is shocked by the contempt that twists his former last name. Blaise has never addressed it before, but it occurs to Charlie… the young Slytherin is an orphan, too. He may have lost something precious to these vigilante people, just like Pansy. Could his family really have something to do with this?

“I will swear on my magic, if that’s what it takes.” Charlie speaks directly to Pansy, who has a distinct expression of uncertainty. “I will swear that I will not allow anyone to cause you harm if it is within my power to stop it.”

“Don’t, Mr. Charlie.” Pansy grips her hands together tightly, shutting her eyes. Charlie is struck by the image, for she looks as though she is praying. 

“Alright.” Pansy exhales. “I’ll go with you.”

Blaise sniffles a bit, and Charlie stomach turns to lead as he realizes that his friend is fighting tears.

“It’s been so long since we could go there.” Blaise murmurs, glancing up at them with pleading eyes. “It’s hard to remember our parents when we can’t be where they were. Our manors are gone. Diagon Alley, dump though it may be….” he trails off and shrugs, hiding his gaze by staring at the floor. ‘That’s it, other than the horrid Ministry.”

“Blaise…” Charlie tries to speak, feeling distinctly powerless. Could it really be like this in Magical Britain? Could things have gotten this bad?

And why has no one done anything to end it?

“The best thing you can do for us, Mr. Charlie, is prove that you’re our ally and not our enemy.” Pansy asserts, looking distinctly pale as she watches her fellow Slytherin take deep breaths.

“I assure you, Miss Pansy, that Blaise is my best friend.” Charlie states flatly. “I will… I’ll…. well, I’ll do something. Someone else has to realize how outrageous all this is. I’ll see what I can do, alright?”

“Alright.” Pansy nods. She looks positively terrified.

“Miss Pansy,” Charlie takes a cautious step towards her, making certain his empty palms are within her line of sight. “I won’t leave you by yourself. I am grateful that you’re coming with me, and taking time out of your day to help me at all.”

He gently takes hold of her upper arms, and Blaise and Pansy simultaneously gasp in horror.

“Jesus,” Blaise snorts, swallowing his tears. “And you only have six days to teach him how to behave like a proper human being?”

“Mr. Charlie,” Pansy huffs, scandalized. “You cannot touch an unmarried Sacred Twenty-Eight woman above the forearm. My God, are you an animal?”

“He normally deals with my Dragons, so I suspect he’ll handle you like an expert, Pansy.” Blaise snickers.

“You foul son of a bitch.” Pansy aims at her friend as she slips gracefully out of Charlie’s grasp, but her words have no venom, and he recognizes that she is attempting to act as she normally would for Blaise’s sake. 

“Are you wearing your amulet?” Blaise asks in a tone that is rather sobering, all traces of watery amusement gone. 

“Obviously.” Pansy snorts, her voice just a little too high. “I’ll be alright, Blaise. I’ve got the Great Weasely Dragon Man to defend my honor.”

Blaise forces a laugh, and Charlie aches at the disparaging fear being shared between the two Slytherins.

“Let’s go. After you, Miss Pansy.” Charlie motions to the fireplace.

At this, Pansy’s mask cracks, and she takes a step back as her lips begin to tremble. 

“No.” she asserts, voice climbing higher and higher with anxiety. “No floo. We side-along apparate, or I refuse to go, my job be damned!” 

“No problem.” Charlie smiles at her in the calmest manner he can. “Shall we?”

Pansy regards his offered arm with a distinctly suspicious look, but when she takes his bicep, she pulls him a little too close, so their hips nudge each other and he can feel her claws digging into him through the leather. 

“Relax.” he instructs her. “And follow me.”

And they set out of the flat in the direction of the elevator, with Pansy throwing one last panicked glance in Blaise’s direction.

“Safe travels.” he mumbles, heading into the kitchen and praying that Charlie makes good on his word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I want to apologize for my weeklong disappearance. I found out some news, and I’m going to move across the country in a few months to attend college. I’ve never lived away from home before, so I’m nervous, even though I think this is a great opportunity. 
> 
> I promise from this point forward I’ll be posting regularly! Let me know what you think about Blaise’s fashion design debut, and thank you for your patience with me as I’ve been figuring out what the heck to do with my life. 
> 
> \--PBY


	10. Pansy is Pleased

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs entirely to J.K. Rowling.

Charlie has to admit to himself, he greatly underestimated the source of Pansy’s fear. 

When they first side-alonged into Diagon Alley, Pansy practically disappeared into the alley wall, she tried so hard to keep out of sight. Charlie, vowing to act as normal as possible so as to perhaps get her to relax, chose not to comment and merely pulled her along the cobblestones with a polite smile plastered on his face.

The second they emerged into the sunlight, encircled by a crowd of weekday shoppers enjoying the warm weather, the noise in the alley seemed to undulate like an ocean wave. The wandering chatter sunk, all eyes drawn for a moment to the unfamiliar man in black Dragon hide and his Lady companion wearing robes far too short, and then immediately raised to an unsettling level. It was a hateful-sounding jabber, and it pricked over Pansy’s skin like an army of spiders. 

Whatever Charlie had anticipated, it was not this. The shoppers seem unsure of how to handle him, for now they must have seen his red hair and deduced his status as a Weasley, but they certainly seem comfortable glaring at Pansy. 

To her credit, the moment the pair became visible, she forced all trepidation away and adopted a pretense of snobby superiority. If Charlie couldn’t feel the way her nails are burrowing into his bicep, and the way she’s breathing a little faster than normal, he would never have known her to be afraid.

But Charlie knows it now, can understand the stark truth of the matter; Pansy is terrified of this. These people are biding their time with threatening looks and pointed whispers, and he is an idiot for making her come here. 

“Where do you suggest we head first, Miss Pansy?” Charlie speaks a little too loudly, making certain all eavesdroppers know she is not on his arm by accident. 

“I suggest we visit Gringotts, Mr. Charlie, or do you expect to pay for everything with your virile allure?”

This comment draws an actual grin out of him, rather than the forced, bright expression he had been adopting for her sake.

“Right you are, my Lady.” Charlie resists snickering, setting off in the direction of the gleaming marble bank with a little bit of a jaunt in his step. Pansy Parkinson, Queen of sexual innuendos. The thought buoys him enough to ignore the attention they are undoubtedly attracting. 

The shoppers move out of the way as the Purebloods pass, but stare shamelessly in the couple’s direction. While the Alley has mostly returned to daily business, it is clear that Pansy cannot travel through here without being watched. 

“You shouldn’t call me that, you oversized idiot.” Pansy whispers once they’ve entered the cool lobby. “People will talk.”

“They’re already talking, Miss Pansy.” Charlie sighs, clenching his jaw. “Has it always been this bad?”

Pansy adopts the look of a wide-eyed deer in headlights for a brief moment, before her careful, aristocratic expression is back on.

“It was worse.” she informs him quietly. “Much worse than a few rude expressions. I’m pleasantly surprised wands weren’t drawn.”

Charlie’s expression is thunderous, which perhaps explains why the Goblin waiting for the next customer in the queue looks mildly interested when they approach. 

“Hello.” Charlie manages a flat smile. “I would like to withdraw gold from the Prewett vault.”

The Goblin’s eyebrows actually rise at this statement.

“And you are?” he inquires, eyes flicking towards a cluster of Goblin Warriors stationed on the edge of the room.

“Not a thief.” Charlie holds up his hands warily. “I just met with my account manager, Griphook, yesterday to… ah, sign the necessary documents.”

If he’s not mistaken, a young wizard being serviced at the desk to their left has gone still, and Charlie would rather not take the chance of being overheard speaking about something like this. The Goblin nods, evidently understanding his hesitance in revealing any detail in the lobby. 

“Please follow me, Sir and Miss Parkinson.” the Goblin strides toward a series of hallways branching off of the opulent lobby, in the opposite direction of the cart stations that carry patrons to their vaults. 

“Thank you, Warvot.” Pansy says, striding far more comfortably once they vanish from the view of the bank customers. Charlie has to remind himself that she works here- this is Pansy Parkinson territory. Of course she would feel comfortable. 

“Wait here, please.” Warvot responds, sliding through a door on their right and disappearing into a narrow room, which Charlie only manages a split-second glance of before the door is shut rudely in his face.

“It’s the contact room.” Pansy whispers. “There are telephones in there which extend to every office in the bank. Goblins can communicate much quicker this way than sending messengers.”

“How do they get the electricity to work?” Charlie asks, baffled by the very idea.

She seems surprised at his inquiry, and bites her lip as she considers the question.

“The Goblins claim their magic is less- flamboyant than that of wizards, so it’s far more compatible with Muggle inventions like the telephone.” Pansy ponders. 

Charlie notices that she scrunches up her lips when she’s thinking deeply. It’s a rather cute expression for a witch who has no hesitation in calling him an idiot. Ironically, this is the most relaxed that Charlie has ever seen her look. Perhaps mental stimulation is the path to distracting Pansy Parkinson from her sorrows. 

“That’s very interesting.” Charlie murmurs. “I wonder what the implications of that are, if the Goblins are correct, and magic manifests differently depending on the species of creature.”

Now, Pansy looks positively gobsmacked as she regards him.

“Contrary to your belief, I’m not hopeless.” Charlie smiles at her indulgently. “I’ve always handled magical theory rather well. I was top of my house class when I graduated Hogwarts.”

“It’s less impressive when you remember that your competition was a bunch of Gryffindors.” she retorts, smirking anyways. “But, yes, you are thinking along the same lines of Hermione and Draco. They’ve been studying creature-specific magic for months in an attempt to explain the Gringotts-telephone phenomenon.”

“Which company are they working for?” Charlie asks. “I thought Hermione was going to forge her way into the Ministry.”

“She is.” Pansy answers tightly. “The Ministry figured they’d have a better chance at controlling those two masterminds if they employed them, so she and Draco are hidden away in the Department of Mysteries.” 

“I had no clue Hermione became an Unspeakable.” Charlie marvels.

“Yes, well, that’s the idea.” The witch rolls her eyes dramatically, though she does not cross her arms, so Charlie considers this a marked improvement. “This way, the Ministry can take advantage of two of the most successful academics Hogwarts had ever seen without answering publicly to the masses for employing someone like Draco.” 

At that moment, Warvot reenters the hall, and Charlie offers him a pleasant expression.

The Goblin looks mildly disgusted. “Griphook confirmed your identity, Lord Prewett. I have permission to extend to you the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett crest, on behalf of Gringotts Bank.”

Pansy grabs Charlie’s arm, squeezing him pointedly, and he recognizes that whatever is happening here is important, and he is clueless on how to proceed.

“Thank you, Warvot.” he answers eventually. Pansy has adopted a look of pure exasperation.

“I haven’t gotten a chance to explain this particular ritual to the new Lord, so do excuse his ignorance, Warvot.” Pansy offers in apology. 

The Goblin bows respectfully in her direction. “Perfectly understandable, considering the unusual circumstances. If I may?”

Pansy nods, and the Goblin puffs up his chest. 

“Lord Prewett,” he begins imperiously, “The house crest is a traditional form of Goblin magic only available to our oldest patrons. When you wish to make a purchase at a magical vendor, you will present your crest so the seller may charge you the cost of his wares, which we will withdraw on their behalf from your vaults.” 

“That’s quite nifty.” Charlie chuckles. “It’s definitely more efficient than hauling around a sack full of galleons.” 

“Dear Merlin.” Pansy mutters, pinching her nose. “Mr. Charlie, you must say the words, ‘I accept this crest on behalf of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett’.” 

“Oh,” Charlie mumbles. “Well, shit. I’m sorry, Warvot. Would you like to start again?”

“That will be unnecessary.” Warvot replies in a tone that quite clearly conveys his opinion of wizard Lords and their ignorance. “The reciprocating words will be enough, Lord Prewett.” 

“I accept this crest on behalf of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett.” 

Just like that, Warvot’s hands are glowing with orange light, and then he is passing something black, about the size of an apple, into Charlie’s open palms.

“So this is the crest.” he mutters, holding the sculpture up to eye level.

“It’s different than mine.” Pansy comments, paling when Charlie raises an eyebrow in her direction. “Nevermind about that.” she mumbles.

When Warvot had explained the purpose of the crest, Charlie imagined a piece of paper with a picture of the Prewett crest printed onto it. His father had never used anything besides coins to pay while shopping with the family, and the only time he’d ever laid eyes on the Weasley family crest was as a child, in a painting hanging in the home of one of his Uncles. 

Charlie must’ve forgotten what the crest actually looked like, because this heavy handful of magical artistry could not have been done justice if painted onto a flat surface. 

Made of some unidentifiable blackened metal, the statue consists of an imposing shield held by a pair of Romanian Longhorn Dragons, with a clear rune carved into the center. A detailed cluster of mountains rests at the top of the shield, encircled by vines of ivy which pool at the twin Dragons’ feet. A formidable-looking creature, which Charlie recognizes as a Norwegian Ridgeback, guards the rear of the shield by baring its tiny teeth in warning. 

“Does the rune translate to Prewett?” Charlie enquires.

“Yes.” Pansy answers him quietly. “The rune never changes, though the guardians, haven and growth often do as it is passed down with each generation.” 

“What was the Prewett crest like before?” he asks beseechingly. “You know, when my Uncles had it.”

Pansy shrugs. “They weren’t on the Wizengamot, so I don’t know much. But the Prewett House is known for having guardians to do with fire. I think your Grandfather’s crest bore hellhounds, if that helps.”

Charlie is staring at this witch, in her floaty purple robes that reveal the tanned skin above her knees, and listening to her spout off ancient British wizarding history, and he’s thinking to himself that it’s cruel to keep a woman like Pansy Parkinson hidden. 

“I never focused much on the Prewett family when I was learning the Sacred Twenty-Eight, regretfully.” she continues obliviously. “They became less popular amongst Pureblood society when they engaged in marriage with the Weasleys.”

“Is there anywhere I can find out more about the Prewett’s family history?” Charlie asks Pansy and Warvot both. 

The Goblin clicks his tongue. “If I may, all records of the Most Noble and Ancient Houses are proudly protected by Gringotts. I daresay the Prewett ancestry would be available for perusing within your vaults, Lord Prewett.” 

“Thank you, Warvot.” Charlie offers his left hand, internally marveling at how the dragons on his crest continue to shuffle and adjust against the skin of his right hand. 

The Goblin shakes once, and then steps back with a lifted nose. 

“Miss Parkinson, will you be able to lead Lord Prewett back to the lobby?” he asks imperiously.

“Of course. Overflowing prosperity, Warvot.” Pansy bows respectfully.

“And to you, Miss Parkinson.” the Goblin bows in turn.

“Come on, Mr. Charlie.” Pansy whispers, tugging his arm insistently.

Charlie forces his attention away from the crest, sighing as he slides in into his pocket. The pockets of these robes hang rather low, since the style is tight around the chest and waist, and they only flare out enough to allow the possibility of pockets below the hips. There is no room for any baggage in the trouser pockets, unfortunately. 

“Yes, Miss. Pansy.” he ambles along, enjoying the way his companion soon begins huffing with frustration as she realizes she does not have the mass to physically pull Charlie up to her preferred speed. 

“Merlin above, you are painfully annoying to be around.” Pansy complains, frowning as she acquiesces and matches his relaxed pace. 

“And you are just a delight, Miss Pansy.” Charlie retorts, smiling as her cheeks flush with pink. 

“Shut up, Mr. Charlie.” she mutters, straightening her posture and throwing back her shoulders as they remerge into the brightly lit lobby. 

One glance at his companion confirms what he suspected; she is again wearing a coldly superior expression, her nose high in the air and her eyes glinting with disinterest. 

“Where would you like to go next?” he offers, squinting in the bright sun of the alley. 

“Perhaps Ollivanders would be most prudent.” Pansy answers quietly, dark eyes darting around the late afternoon patrons strolling past the Gringotts steps. 

“I have no need for a wand.” Charlie explains, struggling with his wrist holster but eventually revealing to her his tried and true Ivy-wood wand.

“Every Lord carries a spare, you dimwitted brute.” Pansy sniffs. “Do you want my assistance, or not?”

He can’t help but smile. “Lead the way, All Mighty Mentor of Mine.” 

Pansy huffs as she initiates their descent towards the cobblestone streets, but Charlie notes that she looks far less cold as she does so. In fact, one might say she looks rather pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I came up with the crest idea on the fly as I wrote, so if anything’s inconsistent, feel free to let me know! Ah, Charlie. He’s so patient. Points to whoever figures out the little easter egg I hid in this chapter. I’ll give you one clue: growth. I love little connections, which are rather hard to hide in a story like this one where I don’t do any real revision. Oh well. The Charlie and Pansy saga continues… 
> 
> \--PBY


	11. Charlie is Overcome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

The moment they step through the familiar doorway announcing the sale of the finest wands in Britain, Charlie and Pansy are struck with a sense of nostalgia. Though it has been years since either one set foot in Ollivander’s shop, they can each remember vividly the experience of being matched with their first wands. 

Pansy takes a deep, shuddering breath, removing her hand from Charlie’s arm. The store looks exactly as it did on her eleventh birthday, when her father took a day off from work to bring her to Diagon Alley. If she closes her eyes, and focuses on the creaking of the building and the musty smell of woodwork and magic, she can remember what it felt like to have him next to her. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Weasley, Miss Parkinson.” Ollivander greets, emerging from his backroom with a careful expression.

The aged voice shocks Pansy out of her reverie, sending prickles of aching discomfort down her spine. She opens her eyes and understands that she is not a child anymore, and that she is here with the new Lord Charlie Prewett. She has no business allowing her feelings to take priority. 

Looking entirely too large to be standing before such a small shopkeeper, Charlie approaches Ollivander with a warm grin and offered hand.

“Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Ollivander.” he booms. 

“Well, now,” the man blusters, tittering with surprise as he accepts the handshake. “There’s no need for raised voices.” 

“It’s so great to see you looking well, Mr. Ollivander.” Charlie declares in a tone that smacks of suppressed joy.

Pansy finds herself startled for a second time, and steps quietly out of the doorway to take refuge in an empty corner. She has not heard someone use a tone of voice like that for many, many years. 

“Yes, well, I may be old, but the wands still need making, so I’ll be here a while yet.” Ollivander replies, grey eyes flicking in her direction. “What can I help you with, Mr. Weasley? Your wand is Ash, twelve inches, Unicorn hair core, is it not?”

Pansy bites her lip, setting her shoulders and attempting to grab hold of herself. This is not about her. 

“It is indeed, and still works brilliantly.” Charlie ejects the wand in question from his wrist holder to display as proof. “However, Miss Pansy believes I need a spare wand.” 

The young man speaks in a tone of the utmost seriousness, looking back at his companion intently for a brief moment. 

“And so, if it isn’t too much trouble, I would like to purchase one.” Charlie grins as he faces the counter once more, and Pansy lets out a breath of relief. 

This statement prompts a soft chuckle from the wandmaker, who shakes his head as he disappears without further ado into the backroom of the shop.

“Did I say something wrong, Miss Pansy?” Charlie leans against the counter and raises an eyebrow in her direction, lips quirking up in a smile. 

“No,” Pansy snorts rather inelegantly, “I just find myself ever confused by your behavior.” 

“Hmm.” Charlie considers her, tapping a callused finger against his lips. “Perhaps there is a reason for all of the things I do.”

“I have no doubt.” Pansy mutters, re-crossing her arms when Ollivander emerges from the depths of his store with a pile of boxes in hand.

“Well, now. Let’s start with a Dogwood wand. Unicorn tail hair, ten and a half inches.” the old man proffers a light colored wand with an air of absolute importance. 

Both Charlie and Pansy hold their breath, suddenly eager for the moment when the verdict on the Dogwood wand would be revealed. 

Charlie attempts a wave, and the wand emits a jarring burst of flatulence in response. The hulking man looks so aghast at the delicate wand in his hand that Pansy has no choice but to succumb to the laughter bubbling in her chest.

Though initially bemused at the dark-haired witch snickering in the corner of his shop, Ollivander enjoys noting aloud to Charlie that ‘Dogwood has a reputation for good humor’.

Charlie cannot look away from the young woman long enough to respond, and he is completely ignorant of the noisy Dogwood wand being replaced in his hand with another. Pansy, meanwhile, is gasping for breath and failing to maintain an air of dignity, her shoulders relaxed and face dimpled, and it is beautiful. Charlie can’t help but unknowingly edge closer to her. 

Ollivander watches the scene unfold with curious eyes. Charlie Weasley has evidently forgotten about his purpose in being there, so busy with the prospect of a laughing Pansy Parkinson that he misses the soft cloud of pink petals which begins emitting from the new wand in his hand. 

Pansy has met the gaze of the red-haired wizard with glittering eyes, and Ollivander suspects nothing would tear the couple out of it, if not for the commence of a flowery attack on the unsuspecting young woman. 

“Whoops.” Charlie laughs, flicking the wand and dispelling the petals, which had been busy attempting to burrow in Pansy’s hair. 

“Merlin!” she complains, smoothing down her dress. “Why does everything turn into such a mess when you’re involved?”

Try as she might, Pansy cannot sharpen her tone enough to fool him. The young wizard knows his companion is holding back a smile, even as she pouts at him. 

Charlie sighs. “Miss Pansy, you look absolutely ravishing.” 

This declaration elicits a noise of surprise from the young lady, who colors as she glances over at their unintended audience. Charlie resolves to continue this conversation in a more appropriate venue.

“So,” the Gryffindor turns back to face the counter, “Would you say petals are a good sign, Mr. Ollivander?”

The wandmaker smiles. “No, Mr. Weasley, I don’t believe the Rowan is a match. I do, however, know of a suitable wand for you.”

“Oh?” the young man prompts with an easy smile. 

Charlie is finding it impossible to be in this shop without remembering the utter joy he felt as a child when purchasing his first wand. Ollivander recognizes his attitude as a typical reaction, having seen it repeated thousands of times over the years. It takes a lot to surprise a man as seasoned as himself, though as Pansy Parkinson unknowingly proved, it is a possible feat. 

Ollivander was shocked when Charlie Weasley entered his shop with Pansy Parkinson by his side. Though most would react defensively upon seeing the young woman, Ollivander had sworn to always supply a willing witch or wizard with a wand if they came to him in peace. 

Though Charlie Weasley had displayed no visible anxiety from undergoing Ollivander’s careful consideration, it was clear that the Parkinson girl felt differently. She looked distinctly unsettled as she took in her surroundings, and, dare he say it, emotional as she recognized them. 

Ollivander could remember the day she first visited him, with pursed lips and shining eyes, trying desperately to appease her father with behavior befitting of a lady. She’d worn a pink ribbon in her hair, and smiled brilliantly at Ollivander as she arrived holding her father’s hand. 

Edmund Parkinson had in turn ignored his daughter completely, even as Ollivander informed him that the first few wands she had held were not a suitable match. Lord Parkinson had chosen to stare flatly into the backroom rather than acknowledging any of it, and Ollivander could not bring himself to question the rude behavior in front of the man’s own child. 

When Ollivander finally presented the little girl with an Elm wand (ten and a quarter inches, Dragon heartstring core) and the shop filled with glimmering silver fish swimming loftily through the air, he expected Pansy Parkinson to burst with pride as she visibly readied herself for her father’s reaction. 

Edmund Parkinson had asked how much he owed the wandmaker in a tone that implied he felt bored by the proceedings. 

Young Pansy’s face had fallen, her smile disappearing, but she’d held her wand with a determined hand. The untrained witch had managed to maintain her magical fish in the face of unbearable disappointment, and this action had surprised the shop owner immensely. For not often did he witness a Pureblood child put down by an absent parent show such intense resolve to prove his or herself. 

It is clear to Ollivander now that Pansy Parkinson felt sadness when entering his shop. Upon meeting his eyes as he greeted the unexpected customers, she had settled in the corner, removing herself from the scene. It was only when she laughed at the Dogwood mismatch that Ollivander recognized this hardened young woman holding herself with pain as that little girl with the wide smile and impressive accidental magic from so many years ago. 

“This wand is Cypress wood. I daresay it will be a stellar fit.” the wandmaker asserts, offering his customer the wand with a knowing smile.

The moment Charlie gives the Cypress wand a wave, the shop fills with rays of sparkling colors, and Ollivander claps with delight. Even Pansy is caught up in the joy, spinning around with all dignity forgotten as she marvels at such a wondrous display of magic. Charlie thinks suddenly that he would like nothing more than to hug her, and so he does, striding forward with abandon and encompassing the slight witch in his arms. 

The young woman initially gasps, eyes wide with surprise peeking over his shoulder, but does not protest as expected. After just a moment of indecision, she closes her eyes determinedly, placing her hands gently on the man’s back. Ollivander thinks to himself that he should expect nothing less from Pansy Parkinson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone know the qualities of Cypress and Elm in wand wood? I spent a half hour reading through every single option in an effort to make Charlie and Pansy’s wands as true to character as possible, so I hope you liked them!
> 
> \--PBY


	12. Daphne is Decided

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

By the time Pansy had apparated to the alleyway behind her apartment building, she was a wreck. Spending the day with Charlie was far more exhausting than it should have been. She found him far too easy to banter with, so open to her criticism and opinion… Pansy had to make a visible effort to maintain an air of professionalism between them, especially after his stunt in Ollivander’s. 

Well, it was mostly his stunt, but she played into it by returning the embrace. Truth be told, it wasn’t just that she was caught off guard that made her do it. Pansy had felt defensive, and vulnerable, and… naughty when he held her. What they had done was absolutely forbidden, and a small part of her enjoyed breaking the rules so flagrantly. 

Besides the fact that Charlie belongs to a family that would crucify her on the spot if given the chance, unmarried Purebloods of the opposite sexes cannot touch beyond what is considered formal and proper, especially not in public. If Charlie is to become a Sacred Twenty-Eight head of household, he must learn the rules in order to be deemed worthy of respect by the rest of the British magical society. The whole ‘hugging a woman who is not your fiancée’ business will never fly.

Slytherin house is actually considered a haven for students from Sacred families since the snakes generally respect formal tradition. Slytherins who are not Pureblood will still learn the old ways, considering the rest of the house behaves according to the rules. Muggleborns are always surprised to discover that most of the Ministry respects these customs, with a few distasteful exceptions like the Auror department. 

Though Slytherin is known for housing students of the Pureblood persuasion, there are plenty of students who heed the old rules while wearing house colors other than green and silver. It’s not uncommon for those students to have trouble navigating the social norm in their houses while still following tradition. According to the rules, only witches and wizards who are formally engaged or related may embrace each other intimately in public. While they may seem arcane and unreasonable, there is logic behind the restrictions. 

The problem is this: say a Ravenclaw belonging to the Sacred Twenty-Eight, who is considering initiating a formal courtship with a Gryffindor she admires, witnesses him hug a female housemate publically. She likely would reconsider her offer and give up pursuing a relationship with the Gryffindor entirely. It would only be natural for someone raised under the old traditions to assume their object of affection had become serious with their housemate upon seeing such intimate contact. 

Peony Parkinson might have had a point when she insisted her daughter never stray from tradition. Ever since that hug, Pansy cannot stop thinking about him.

She’s starting to understand why the rules were created in the first place. 

It’s so easy to imagine other ways of holding Charlie Prewett. He looks so different from the other Pureblood heirs, what with being quite muscular and masculine versus the usual slender and soft figures of her housemates. Hufflepuff and Gryfindor heirs almost always go a step further and carry unflattering weight. It is important to be physically appealing when seeking a wife (especially considering the vain temperament of most Sacred daughters), but fitness rarely lasts no matter which house the heir hails from. 

It is too slippery of a slope for Pureblood men to give up on looking appealing, particularly after they inherit and marry. There is no longer any wooing of girls to be done, any strict mothers to charm, any reason not to allow the house elves to whip up a constant stream of delicacies to aid the toils of running a Sacred family. Not to mention, because their wives often fall pregnant immediately, there is a joke among Lords along the lines of ‘if she can get fat, so can I’. 

Pansy has no doubt in her mind that Charlie would never use his wife’s pregnancy as an excuse to stop taking care of himself. He seems so eager to take care of everyone else, in fact, it’s a wonder he has time to maintain his appearance at all. While Charlie doesn’t seem likely to spend hours deep conditioning his hair like Draco or indulging in facials like Blaise, it’s obvious he exercises quite frequently. 

And when Pansy finally let up on the shopping and decided it was time for a snack, Charlie hadn’t made a beeline for the ice cream shop, as she would have anticipated. He had led her to a market stall, handed over some coins, and presented her with a pair of green apples. 

Pansy had never seen a Pureblood man willingly choose health over pleasure. When Charlie noticed her confused expression, he’d shrugged, and gave some half-assed explanation that he’s trying to include more fruit into his diet. Surprisingly, the tart apple had been the perfect snack to relieve her parched mouth without inducing a sugar headache. It seems more and more likely that Charlie is the most observant man she has ever had the annoyance of dealing with.

After drawing her into a complicated explanation of why certain fabrics aren’t appropriate to wear before the Wizengamot, Charlie had slipped the gnawed-on core of the first apple from her hand and replaced it with his own apple as if she wouldn’t notice. Pansy likes apples, but the inappropriateness of eating in front of men with her hands is a notion she’s never been able to shake. When she had politely declined the second portion, pressing it back into his hand, he’d leveled her with a stare that even she found intimidating. 

“Your stomach is still growling, Miss Pansy.” Charlie had stated, eyes flicking over her torso. “Would you prefer to eat something else? Because, frankly, you are going to eat something, as I will not allow you to fall ill when you are my responsibility.”

“Um,” Pansy had responded intelligently. “Uh, well, it’s not considered appropriate for a Lady to eat with her hands in front of a Lord, Mr. Charlie. As a child, it was never allowed in my home, regardless of whether my father was present or not. I am merely sparing you from judgment, since we are still in public. Do you really want the press to claim that the company you keep is without manners?”

Charlie had actually gasped in horror, placing both hands on her shoulders. “Are you telling me, Pansy Parkinson, that you have never eaten buffalo wings?” 

“Merlin above.” she had griped, attempting to ignore the feel of his hands through the delicate lilac silk of her robes. “Mr. Charlie, you must unhand me.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Charlie had asked, peering into her eyes, and Pansy had recognized immediately that he was no longer adhering to his typical imitation of her formal behavior. That question had been honest, and direct, and she didn’t have an answer. 

He wanted to know if she was comfortable with him touching her like a lover. Her mother would have seized on the spot if she’d been alive to see that. To Charlie, having not grown up with the old ways, his hands on her shoulders might not have seemed like the touch of a lover, but for her, it was a touch she’d only witnessed among couples. Charlie is much easier to deal with when he’s a Lord and she’s a Lady and he’s going along with all of her rules versus Charlie the man wanting an answer from Pansy the woman. 

It’s dangerous to think of him as just Charlie and not Charlie the new Lord Prewett. They are not partners, not engaged, have no real business of knowing each other, and it would do her well not to forget it. It’s too easy to imagine him wanting her when she thinks of him as just a man. 

Pansy had answered, “No.”, and Charlie had smiled at her.

“You have helped me so much today, Pansy. I could have never done this without you here. Would you come with me for a real meal?” he had asked, squeezing her shoulders gently as he spoke.

“Unhand me.” she had ordered through gritted teeth, and Charlie had removed his hands from her in an instant.

“I’m sorry.” he’d said, and then taken a step back. “I’m sorry, Miss Pansy. Please forgive my- um, my uncouthness.” 

She had taken a deep breath, and relaxed her stance. “I accept your apology, Mr. Charlie.” 

He’d smiled at her again, rubbing his hands together. “Would you still be willing to eat with me, Miss Pansy?”

She’d narrowed her eyes. “I would consider your invitation to dinner should it arrive.” 

Charlie clearly hadn’t understood what she meant, but it didn’t seem to deter him. He’d only nodded to himself with a calculating expression, and then straightened up to face her directly. 

“I offer my most sincere thanks for your assistance today, and apologize again for all the times I invaded your personal boundaries or earned your ire.” he had said sincerely, bowing to her. 

Pansy had nearly dropped the apple still clutched loosely in her hand. A second later, her formal upbringing kicked in, and she’d slid into a familiar curtsy.

“I accept your gratitude with modesty, my Lord.” she had responded demurely.

Completely ignorant of the fact that they’d just observed a formal ritual in a sunny corner of Diagon Alley in full view of whatever passerby might have been curious enough to wander that direction, Charlie and Pansy had shared a rather heated gaze. 

She’d apparated without saying goodbye, too embarrassed by the flush in her cheeks and the sweat dripping down her back to make sense of the situation. Glancing down at the uneaten apple she’s still clutching, Pansy lobs it into the fireplace.

“Jesus Christ!” a voice exclaims. 

Daphne Greengrass, in white formal robes, binders in hand, has stepped out of the fireplace into Pansy’s living room.

“Was that an apple?” she demands, tossing her blonde hair over one shoulder and peering at Pansy with a suspicious expression.

“Yes.” she replies. “A green one. Charlie bought it for me because I was hungry, and I threw it. It’s a bad juju apple, I think. I’m also embarrassed. Why are you in my flat?” 

Daphne looks completely bemused by Pansy’s explanation, but chooses to ignore the implications of it in favor of setting her binders on the living room table and smoothing out a roll of notes and diagrams. The girl is wearing a set of slim silver boots that would have Pansy drooling with envy if she wasn’t so put out by her behavior in front of Charlie. 

“I need your help.” Daphne states, taking a seat on the couch and patting the leather cushion beside her in invitation.

Pansy can’t even muster up a sigh. “Who’s wedding is proving to be a nightmare this time?”

“The Red Devil’s precious daughter.” Daphne spits, her expression turning furious. “Blushing bride Ginny Weasley.”

“You’re fucking with me, Daph!” Pansy crows, taking a seat. “The Weasleys came to your firm to plan their wedding to Potter? What kind of tasteless hypocrisy is that?”

“I am just as confused as you are.” Daphne snorts. “I’m actually not confused, I’m disgusted. No other British wedding planner can work magic like I can, so it makes sense for them to choose me, but...” 

“But?” Pansy prompts.

Daphne shudders. “But their presence in my office makes me sick to my stomach.”

“I’ll get us some wine.” 

“Thank God one of us still has sense.” Daphne mutters, humming with relief when Pansy places a glass of cool white in her hand.

Daphne Greengrass had responded to the hatred of Death Eater children in an interesting way; she’d forced the public to accept her. Doling out the money in her own trust vault to entertain society women who’d remained neutral in the second war, Daphne had made certain to advertise how beautiful the weddings she’d been planning out of the country were turning out. She’d become something of a commodity in France, and the British Sacred mothers had been stricken by the idea of losing one of their own Sacred daughters to the lure of the French, all nasty business with Voldemort aside. 

What made Daphne and Astoria unique was that unlike the rest of them, their father had never been proven to be a follower of the Dark Lord. Their parents had not carried the dark mark, and so had been allowed to flee for a tropical destination in the Maldives to wait out the unrest. This fact made high society far more amenable to including the Greengrass girls in the fold. Daphne later managed to be hired to plan a wedding for a Macmillian cousin, and that was all it took. She was allegedly accepted by magical Britain, and went on to open an office in Diagon Alley.

Astoria was meeting Daphne for lunch by the office when she’d been struck by a curse and killed.

“Will you be taking them on as clients?” Pansy asks, banishing her shoes to the closet and tucking her feet up onto the couch.

“Normally, the answer would be no, perhaps with some choice insults included, but I can’t in good consciousness turn down the opportunity for my business to get international publicity.” Daphne rubs her eyes.

“Ah,” Pansy sighs. “Potter.”

“Fucking Potter.” Daphne agrees. “Being the mastermind behind the Potter-Weasley Wedding would make me famous. Every magical celebrity would be on my doorstep. It would be an incredible opportunity financially, and I feel like an idiot for considering turning it down.”

“Why would you turn it down?” Pansy asks quietly, taking a sip of her drink.

Daphne looks at her with a distraught expression. “Astoria would never forgive me if she knew I was giving business to them.” 

Pansy closes her eyes, taking a deep breath to prepare herself to respond.

“Daph,” she speaks as gently as possible, “Your family has done business with unsavory characters for as long as either of our family lines can be traced. No matter which side was considered unsavory over the years, the Greengrasses never allowed that to dictate whom they do business with. What makes this any different?”

Daphne squeezes the stem of her wineglass. “That family killed my sister.”

“No.” Pansy forces herself to speak, ignoring the distinct sense of guilt in her chest. “The Weasley family didn’t kill Astoria. Some asshole with delusions of justice killed Astoria.”

“They killed her because of what that family said.” Daphne whispers.

“They killed her because your father was suspected of being a Death Eater.” Pansy cringes, even as she speaks the words and assures herself that they are true. “What that Weasley bitch said was horrible, and in my opinion, unforgiveable, but… it’s not her kids’ fault that she’s a heartless cunt.”

Daphne downs her entire glass in one. “What the hell makes you say that?” she demands.

Pansy clenches her jaw. “I’ve been consorting with Charlie Weasley. The one who left for Romania before we were in school.”

Daphne stares at her for a long while, considering her friend, before relieving Pansy of her wineglass and finishing it off. 

“I suspect there is a reason for that.” she says eventually.

“There is.” Pansy rubs her temple. “I’m sorry, Daph.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Daphne laughs humorlessly. “Apologize to Astoria.”

This remark tugs at Pansy’s self control, and she finds herself unable to keep from blurting out what she’s thinking.

“You know, Daph, it makes you just as bad as the people who attacked us if you hate the Weasley children just because of what their parents did.” 

Daphne goes so pale, she looks as though the life is draining out of her right there on Pansy’s white leather couch.

“You know, Pansy, I really hate when you manage to out-maneuver me in logic, even though you’re the one afraid to so much as pass another witch on the street.” 

“Actually,” Pansy mumbles. “I went to Diagon Alley today.” 

Daphne grabs her arm, digging her French manicure into the silk sleeve.

“Shut the fuck up.” she crows, squeezing. “What made you do it?”

“Charlie.” Pansy bites her lip as she shakes her off. “Well, the Goblins made me do it, actually, but I went with Charlie.”

Daphne begins to cry.

“Shit, Daph, I’m sorry,” Pansy frets, grabbing the girl’s slender hand and praying she doesn’t draw her wand.

“Don’t tell anyone about this, alright?” the blonde demands, wiping at her face and breathing deeply. 

“Yes.” Pansy agrees. “It’ll stay between us.”

“It’s just,” Daphne is abruptly choked up by a new round of tears. “It’s just that I don’t know who to hate anymore for Astoria’s murder. I think I’ve always known that it’s not the Weasley family’s fault for what happened, not even that fucking whore Molly Weasley.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Pansy mutters.

“She lost a son.” Daphne pinches the bridge of her nose, lowering her head. “And she must have been so angry when she said those things, and… and I was so angry when my sister died that I think I might have said some horrible things, too. I didn’t want anyone to die, not really. What if she didn’t want anyone to die either?”

“You don’t have to forgive them or justify Molly Weasley’s actions to take her money and do a tacky Weasley wedding.” Pansy points out.

Daphne looks at her. “That may be true, but I have to forgive myself for betraying Astoria by doing this.” 

Pansy’s chest constricts, and she nearly loses her composure. Is it wrong, to be thinking of Charlie as she has been? He’s a Weasley, a member of the family that called for the heads of Death Eater children after the war. As much as she may argue in favor of Charlie being a good man, there is still a part of Pansy who believes the family is at fault for what happened to the rest of them.

“And no wedding I do will ever be tacky, Pansy.” Daphne adds, raising her nose into the air.

Suddenly, it is all too much, and both women burst into giggles. 

“And how do you plan to keep an affair centered around Potter and Weasley classy?” Pansy snickers.

“That’s what I’m here in fuck-all Muggle London for.” Daphne hiccups. “Believe it or not, they claim they came to me because they want a traditional wedding, and no one knows Pureblood tradition like you.”

“Excuse me?” Pansy scoffs. “Why the hell would they do that?”

Daphne shrugs. “The Red Devil was pretty set on it. She demanded it be as proper as the other Sacred Twenty-Eight weddings, but even grander, since it’s Harry Potter himself being married to her precious daughter.”

Pansy laughs out loud. “She did not.”

“I assure you, she did.” Daphne insists. “What an uppity bitch! Her daughter just sat there looking smug, Ginny didn’t even look at her fiancée while we spoke about their vision.”

“Potter’s such an idiot.” Pansy snickers. “Imagine marrying a woman who will probably turn out as awful as her mother.”

“Probably worse.” Daphne smirks. “Ginny wants gold bridesmaid dresses.”

“Oh, good God.” Pansy scoffs. “What is this, France? Even if it was, the gold bridesmaid dress trend ended two years ago.”

“She wants everything to look very- what’s the word she used?” Daphne shuffles through her notes. “Ah, yes, ‘luxurious’.” 

“She wants gold because that’s exactly what she’s digging for in this marriage.” Pansy giggles.

“Please, almighty Pureblood Princess, help me spin this whack event into something our mothers would actually attend.” Daphne smiles crookedly as she pleads with both hands pressed together. 

“You have my undying loyalty.” Pansy declares, leaning forward to peer at the spread. “Now, what date did they decide on?”

“June 3rd.” Daphne reports.

“No.” Pansy contradicts. “Not unless Ginny wants a barren womb. Don’t they know anything about the magic of auspicious dates?” 

“Apparently not.” Daphne sighs, flicking through her calendar. “Should we suggest June 15th? That’s ‘a windfall of wealth’.”

“Perfect.” Pansy purrs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the wedding madness begins! I cannot wait to finally get the ball rolling on this story… let me know what you think!
> 
> \--PBY


	13. Charlie is Determined

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

“You look… springy.” Blaise comments, watching with an amused expression as Charlie saunters into the flat and locks the door with a careless wave.

The new outfit truly looks magnificent, and a warm sense of pride develops in Blaise’s chest as he admires his creation. The first piece of art spun from his own fingertips. 

“Hello, Blaise, are you enjoying my apartment?” Charlie snorts, smiling broadly as he takes off his boots.

“Dearly.” the Slytherin quips, hopping up as he realizes Charlie isn’t intending to sit and relax. Blaise troops after his friend into the bedroom, swilling a glass of clear liquid.

Is it water? Charlie briefly wonders at this new development, and watches his friend take a seat on the bed. 

“Well?” Blaise prompts, expression very serious. “Is Pansy okay?”

Charlie pats him on the shoulder, offering a gentle smile. “Of course she is. I told you I wouldn’t let her come to harm.”

“Splendid, old boy!” Blaise crows, kicking off his shoes onto the hardwood floor haphazardly. Surprisingly, he doesn’t look relieved or even surprised at all, and a shard of suspicon blooms in Charlie’s chest. 

“Now,” Blaise grins, “Show me your purchases. I’ll get all the gossip on your day out on the town later, so don’t bother.”

“Well, darn.” Charlie responds, rolling his eyes as he sheds his outer robes, the suspicion intensifying. “And I so wanted to share the gossip myself.”

“Oh, hush, you great git.” Blaise chastises, blushing when Charlie erupts into laughter.

“Someone’s in a good mood!” the Gryffindor teases, shaking his head fondly as he reaches into the robe pockets and removes a handful of shrunken packages.

“It might not seem like anything to you, but the fact Pansy visited Diagon Alley and left unharmed is cause for celebration to me.” Blaise responds, his smile rather sad as he takes another gulp of his mystery drink.

“What is that?” Charlie asks abruptly.

Blaise’s delicate eyebrows shoot up. “Water.” he replies, handing the glass over. “Go on, take a sip. Would you like to see my wand, to be certain I’m of age? Or perhaps we should call the Aurors, and have me arrested for possibly drinking in my own home.” 

Charlie sets the glass down on the nightstand, and pulls Blaise into a tight hug.

“It might not seem like a big deal to you,” he says gently, “But the fact that my friend spent the day alone and managed to stay sober is cause for celebration to me.”

Blaise huffs, squirming out of the embrace, but Charlie can see from the look on his face that he is immensely pleased by the acknowledgement.

“Well, alright.” the Slytherin mumbles, tugging on his shirtsleeves. “Enough of that. I want to see what Pansy bought you.”

It’s Charlie’s turn to huff in mock annoyance. “I was technically the one who bought it,” he complains, waving his wand to restore the purchases to their natural size.

“Bear no offense, chap, but I know it wasn’t you who picked out diamond buttons on the presentation-day trousers.” 

“Pansy ordered what?” Charlie demands, peering closely at the item in question. “Who wastes jewels in a pair of trousers? You won’t even see them under the robes.”

Blaise snickers. “There’s a naughty joke in there somewhere, but I digress. It’s actually tradition for the presenting Lord to wear his mother’s, or fiancée’s, birthstone on his lower half.”

“That’s… rather perverted.” Charlie declares. 

“Yes, well, so are Purebloods.” Blaise retorts. “Haven’t you ever heard of the fertility rituals performed after Pureblood wedding ceremonies? They sometimes involve the parents of the groom and bride, and for the bride to be slathered head to toe in a paste meant to encourage the vigor of the groom’s seed.”

“Jesus.” Charlie shudders. “I suppose the diamond buttons aren’t too bad.” 

“Exactly,” Blaise snickers. “All other flaws withstanding, no one could accuse Pansy of not having good taste.”

Even an observer with an untrained eye like Charlie cannot deny it. Pansy had forgone the usual trip to Madame Malkin’s and silently led him down Knockturn Alley. He’d been ushered into an unobtrusive shop with no sign advertising its wares, with the reluctant assurance that she used to come here as a young girl. 

Once inside, Charlie had felt equal parts uncomfortable and awed. Not an inch of space was wasted, and meandering paths branched out across the dimly lit floor. The shop clearly catered only to patrons with money to burn, as it was cluttered with striking clothing items made of materials Charlie had never before seen in person. Acromantula silk shirts, Dragon hide boots, and what looked suspiciously like a cloak made of crups fur were displayed all within two feet of the shop entrance.

Rather than striding with a familiar sense of urgency and purpose as she had in the pervious stores, Pansy had taken her time to admire some of the items before approaching the portly cashier. After haggling aggressively for a few minutes and briefly slipping into what sounded like fluent Italian, Pansy had returned to fetch him and watched closely as Charlie was measured and poked and prodded, and finally had his crest snatched from him by her grabby little hands. 

Eventually, after witnessing another argument beyond his understanding, Pansy had settled with the shopowner and waited impatiently at Charlie’s side while his new outfit was magically created out of their sight. Having been left to their own devices, Charlie elected to entertain Pansy by regaling stories of his run-ins with creatures whenever he recognized a material around them. 

She had giggled audibly at his description of a drunk Acromantula, and immediately clapped a manicured hand over her mouth in horror as the sound echoed through the shop. Charlie had wanted dearly to remove her hand, and recognized in that moment that her rare smile meant more to him than his public image ever could. She could tear off her robes and perform a jig in her birthday suit and he would still think her adorable. 

Well, something akin to adorable.

For even if her laugh had caused the sole other patron of the shop, a weedy girl in dark robes, to jump in surprise and knock over a stack of shoeboxes, hearing it left Charlie with a similar sensation to how he feels when riding a broomstick. Though Pansy may have flushed with embarrassment, and then hurried them out of the place rather quickly once the shopkeeper emerged with his order, he could tell she was not unhappy.

“Runespoor skin.” Blaise smiles as he runs a hand over the shining robe. “Clever, Pansy.”

“How is it clever?” Charlie inquires, peering at the mostly nondescript black-scaled material.

“Runespoors are a type of snake notorious for their bright orange skin.” Blaise explains. “This robe, of course, has been dyed. But by using it, she is alluding not only to your Weasley heritage, but also your willingness to associate with snakes.”

“Sounds complicated.” Charlie notes. “Before we continue, may I ask you a question?”

Blaise furrows his brows in confusion. “Of course, old boy.”

“Swell.” Charlie responds. “Who did you have following us?”

Blaise’s eye twitches, though his expression remains unchanged, and Charlie swallows a chuckle.

“Excuse me?” Blaise titters. “I do believe my brain shorted up for a second there.”

“Shorted out,” Charlie corrects. “And it did not. I know you had someone follow us. I’m pretty sure that weedy girl from the clothing shop followed us out because I noticed her apparate soon after Pansy left, but what convinced me was that you were completely calm and sober when I returned, in no hurry to ask if your friend had survived. You already knew.”

Blaise smiles grimly. “I don’t take chances with the people I love.”

“I don’t blame you.” Charlie sighs. “Who was it?”

“Theo Nott.” Blaise admits. “Brilliant tracker, and a dear friend of mine.”

“The one who located me in Romania.” Charlie recalls, snapping his fingers. “He must be dedicated, to have been posing as a young girl. Did he have to do with your miraculous switch to drinking water?”

Blaise sags a little. “I guess Theo is a good influence.” he says quietly. “He…he reminds me of Snape when he chastises me. It helps, for a little while.”

Charlie knows he is veering into dangerous territory, and how reluctant Slytherins are to reveal and discuss feelings, and so decides a supportive smile of understanding would be the most helpful reaction.

“I want to know more about Pansy’s sneaky fashion choices.” Charlie declares, noting Blaise’s look of relief at the subject change. “Will the meaning behind the snakeskin really make such an impression?”

“Even if it is not recognized by all for being significant in meaning, it’ll be recognized by all for being outrageously expensive.” Blaise swallows, settling into a more comfortable role as the teacher. “By showcasing your wealth in such a way, you’ll make waves the moment you enter the room. Pansy really is a clever girl.” 

“Why is it so important for me to make waves?” Charlie asks carefully, picking at his nails. “I still don’t understand the purpose of a formal presentation.”

“Connections, old boy!” Blaise bellows. “It’s a way to introduce yourself to the magical community, a debut, of sorts. Traditionally, a ball would be planned for after the assembly with the Wizengamot to meet unmarried daughters, but that has been done away with since the burnings.”

“Why?” Charlie asks, cocking his head. 

Blaise’s hand twitches for his glass, and he frowns at the remnants of the clear liquid.

“There are no estates left to hold them in.” he says quietly. “And no assurance that a formal occasion wouldn’t be seen as an invitation to the vigilantes who killed our parents, what with all the remaining Sacred families gathering in one place. The Aurors wouldn’t bother even trying to offer protection.”

“What if I told you we could hold a ball anyways?”

Blaise’s mouth twists. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear, but-“

“I think I know a way to fix this.” Charlie declares. “It won’t be easy, it’ll take some serious cunning, but I think I can improve the state of British magical society enough to make it safe for you again.”

Blaise pats his hand. “A grand sentiment, old boy. Your optimism is warming to behold.”

“Don’t patronize me.” Charlie smirks. “Didn’t you hear me say I had a plan?”

“You’re not even Slytherin,” Blaise counters, smiling despite himself. “How do you expect to convince the entire British wizarding population to change their minds when you weren’t even sorted into the house of cunning and ambition?”

“I have good news and bad news.” Charlie reveals. “The good news is I have a handful of Slytherins who I care for and trust to lead me in the right direction with my abrupt introduction into wizarding politics.”

“And the bad news?” Blaise plays along.

“I have the temper of my mother.” Charlie admits. “But that could end up being helpful, anyways. I just need to channel it to something that matters. I need your help to play this the right way.”

“Not to be rude, old boy, but what you’re saying is impossible.”

“It is not impossible.” Charlie argues. “That’s just what the criminals hiding under the ruse of being the ‘good guys’ want you to think. This society belongs to all of us, and it has laws to protect all of us, and the vigilante justice needs to end. I’ve got an old name behind me, a seat on the Wizengamot, and more gold than you’d find in a Dragon’s tower. I will do this.” 

“You lions are so brash.” Blaise complains, waving away the speech. “And declarations of undying determination won’t get you far.” he points out. “Not in these sorts of politics.”

“Then teach me.” Charlie insists, taking hold of Blaise’s hand as the man reaches for the water glass. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not leaving. I would like your help, Blaise, and I won’t be able to get it if you get drunk.”

Blaise drops his gaze, his hands shaking, and Charlie continues in the gentlest tone he can muster.

“I’ve been thinking about this, and I only have one shot to speak to the entire Wizengamot at once. We can do something important here, if we plan this carefully. All I’m asking you to do is try.” 

Blaise sucks in a shaky breath, his lips settling into a pout.

“I’ll fail you.” he mumbles.

“You won’t.” Charlie states. “With you three on my side, I’m sure I’ll succeed.” 

“Three?” Blaise sniffles. “Referring to yourself in third person, old boy?”

“No.” Charlie smiles. “I’m talking about Hermione.” 

Blaise’s eyes widen. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“The Wizengamot isn’t going to know what hit them.” Charlie responds.

And if a cruel smile twists the Gryffindor’s lips as he speaks, Blaise certainly isn’t going to point it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Charlie has concocted a plan. Blaise, Pansy, and Hermione all working together towards a common goal is a terrifying prospect. I don’t envy the vigilantes or the Wizengamot. This was originally going to be a Charlie-thrown-into-the-Pureblood-world fun story, then it turned into an ultimate-Pureblood-wedding-drama romance story, and now I’ve arrived at injustice-being-righted-through-cunning-politics meaningful story. 
> 
> There will still be plenty of content about the wedding and all it’s accompanying drama, and of course, the romance of Charlie and Pansy. Next chapter will likely be Pansy, Blaise, Charlie and Hermione setting some things in motion before Charlie’s presentation. I’m excited to write it, as I think I’ll be introducing a character we haven’t seen yet. 
> 
> I apologize for posting a day late, as I spent yesterday doing a complete overhaul on the twelve chapters I’d written so far. I finally went through and read everything, correcting some spelling errors, righting some grammar mistakes, and getting an idea of what the heck I’ve done with the story so far. It was getting to the point where I was fuzzy on certain details, so it was necessary, though I won’t be doing another revision session until chapter twenty at the earliest. All suggestions and comments are welcome! 
> 
> Happy late Easter! I hope you all had a wonderful holiday.
> 
> \--PBY


	14. Susan is Convinced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

“Should I have brought scones?” Hermione frets, peering around the apartment with curiosity. 

Blaise fidgets in an armchair as he watches her. The man is clearly nervous, though not averse to having a Muggleborn sit on his Italian leather sofa. Sighing at the pair of them, Pansy takes a seat besides the black-haired woman, who has chosen her new hair color in light of the brief explanation Pansy gave when inviting her here.

Hermione was unsurprised to learn of Charlie’s inheritance and wayward plan for his presentation, which was rather unnerving in itself, but Pansy supposes that the Muggleborn is an Unspeakable. Hermione is party to things in her job that would likely send Pansy spinning into insanity. A secret inheritance and planned political attack on the ministry is probably not even worth a moment of anxiety when it comes to a person like Hermione or Draco.

The Malfoy Heir had politely declined Pansy’s extended invitation to attend this little plotting session in Blaise’s apartment, sounding rather more subdued than usual on the floo. Pansy will have to ask Hermione later on if everything’s going all right. She had heard a rumor from Daphne that Draco had now moved into Granger’s apartment fulltime.

“No scones, Granger.” Pansy snorts, patting her hand. “This is coup, not a tea party.”

“It will be a coup, not is.” the Muggleborn corrects. “I still have not heard the argument that Charlie thinks will convince those awful people, despite the lengthy research I’ve come up with to support him since we spoke.”

“Well, I suppose we should go ahead and begin sharing that.” Charlie interjects, striding in from the kitchen and taking a seat opposite the girls. He’s got a flakey scone in hand, and Hermione offers Pansy a rather smug expression.

When Charlie had flooed Pansy and given a bare bones summary of his plan, Blaise nodding over his shoulder, she had admittedly been skeptical. However, the longer Charlie insisted that something had to be done and that his presentation would be the perfect opportunity, the more Pansy found herself on board with the idea. 

She had flooed Hermione, who had agreed to dig up some war reports and meet them later in the week at Charlie’s place. The Muggleborn had again seemed altogether unsurprised to learn that Pansy was spending a bit of time around a Weasley. ‘Charlie has always been removed from the rest of his family’, Hermione had shrugged. ‘He never adopted the bias the rest of us did’. 

“I’ve actually invited one more person.” Hermione states firmly. “I hope it is alright with you, Blaise. She swore an unbreakable vow not to attack anyone at this meeting on this day, unless in defense. I didn’t give her permission to floo, so she should be apparating to the alleyway and making her way upstairs any minute now.” 

“Who is it?” Pansy demands, tucking her hair behind her ear and ignoring the feel of Charlie’s eyes.

“Someone who would be a very valuable ally to have on our side if we go through with this.” Hermione answers, leaning forwards in her seat. “She isn’t yet convinced, but please, make an effort with her. She could be the difference between failure and success. Old names tend to have that effect on the Wizengamot.” she adds drily. 

“Enough mystery gang bullshit.” Pansy persists. “Out with it. Who did you invite?”

“Susan Bones.” Hermione replies, hopping up to answer the door as the bell announces their new guest’s arrival.

“Susan Bones?” Charlie repeats, his expression clearly confused.

“Hufflepuff,” Blaise mutters, clasping his hands. “The gal was in our year at Hogwarts. Played on the Gobstones team.”

“I also graduated with the highest NEWT marks in my house, prefer vanilla ice cream, and enjoy long walks on the beach.” Susan says sarcastically, frowning at the lot of them as she steps into the sitting area.

To everyone’s surprise, Blaise blushes, and Charlie is left to get things back on track when Pansy and Hermione are too busy looking surprised to say anything helpful.

“Miss Bones,” Charlie greets, smiling as he kisses her knuckles. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Susan sighs, choosing an empty armchair and settling into it with an air of weary resignation.

“Well.” Hermione clasps her hands together as she retakes her seat. “I suppose I’ll begin by sharing the research I’ve collected. As an Unspeakable, I am bound not to reveal the details of confidential Ministry investigations. However, public record is available for any civilian to access, so that is where I started.”

The black-haired girl ruffles through her handbag, her entire arm disappearing up to the elbow, before she eventually locates a roll of parchment thicker than Pansy’s wrist.

“Yes,” she settles into the couch, evidently preparing to give a lecture. “According to the ministry, nine thousand, nine hundred and seventy six magical people who either attended or would have qualified to attend Hogwarts died in war circumstances between the years of Voldemort’s first emergence in 1952 and his final downfall in 1998. This includes the number of magic users killed in battle, killed through terrorist acts committed by other magic users, and rendered soulless by Dementors under Voldemort’s orders while he controlled the ministry. Overall, over the span of two separate wars, over half of the British magical population has been murdered.” 

“Holy shit, my dear.” Blaise whispers, and there is a shocked murmur of agreement amongst the rest of them.

“If we include the crimes committed by vigilantes against families of Voldemort supporters, the number rises to ten thousand one hundred and eleven souls.” Hermione informs them.

“All those people…” Susan mumbles, looking rather horrified.

Even Pansy is sickly green. “Is there more, Granger?” she asks, clenching her jaw in disgust. 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Hermione confirms. “In 1951, before Tom Riddle took the moniker Voldemort, the average size of a graduating class at Hogwarts was one hundred and fifty children. That is more than three times the size of the average graduating class size today, which is a mere forty students.

“The rate of magical children being born has decreased threefold. I’m afraid I can say no more about the subject without delving into non-public information, and since it is official ministry business, I am bound not to reveal any confidential details about the magical population census.” she states, lowering the parchment pointedly.

When it is silent, the air heavy with confusion, Hermione sighs.

“Pansy, ask me about Draco and I’s new project.” she says brightly.

“Alright.” Pansy frowns. “How is your new project?”

“Well, I’m glad you spoke first!” Hermione states pointedly. “I’ll be happy to confirm that our new British magical population census project is going swell.” 

Pansy is the first to catch on. “It’s her vow,” she informs the others, scrunching up her lips in thought. “Granger can’t spill the beans without breaking her vow to the ministry, but she can still let us know if the conclusions we’re drawing are on the right track or not, right?”

“I cannot say anything more, because it is official ministry business.” Hermione confirms, smirking slightly as she nods.

“Splendid.” Pansy sighs, rubbing her neck. “This way, Hermione won’t be arrested, and we can still discuss what the Ministry is trying to keep quiet from the rest of society.” 

“This all sounds rather dramatic.” Susan states, suddenly looking nervous. “Maybe they don’t know how bad the statistics are, so that’s why they haven’t done anything. Surely the Wizengamot isn’t conspiring against the good of the community.”

“I don’t think so, Miss Bones.” Charlie taps his finger against his lips. “I don’t think conspiracy is the right word. I think that it’s more of a case of compliance. Though why the information is not more widely spread, I do not know.”

“I think it’s a case of blood status hysteria, again.” Blaise mutters.

“What do you mean?” Susan asks sharply.

“Hey now,” Charlie intervenes. “Let’s not attack each other. Miss Granger, is the confidential census project you looked into counting the number of Purebloods versus Half-bloods and Muggleborns?”

“I cannot say anything more, as it is official ministry business.” she nods firmly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Charlie mutters, aware of an idea just beyond the recesses of his thoughts that he can’t quite grasp. What is bothering me? 

“See.” Blaise says petulantly. “They don’t want to create a mass panic over population stats and force Purebloods to mix with the wrong sort.”

“But why?” Susan demands. “Blood hysteria is over. Finished.”

“That’s bullshit.” Pansy says. 

“How is it-“

“Miss Granger,” Charlie interrupts, “You were speaking before about magic users, but that’s not the entire community, is it? Is the census project you’re looking into counting squibs as well?”

“I cannot say anything more, as it is official ministry business.” Hermione nods tightly.

“Another yes.” Pansy swallows. “That does not sound good.”

Looking around, Charlie notices that all three Purebloods in attendance have suddenly taken on an air of intense discomfort.

“Am I missing something?” he asks, appealing directly to Blaise.

The man keeps his eyes firmly on the floor. Pansy is the one who eventually answers. “This subject is never discussed in polite company. It’s… a very sensitive topic.”

“A topic without much investigation, ironically enough.” Hermione interjects.

“Well, can you blame people for choosing not to think of such a terrifying prospect?” Pansy replies irritably. “We all grew up being threatened with the old wives tale of how if you don’t perform enough magic, you’re more likely to have squibs, and be disowned from the family. And you wonder why Pureblood children nearly always crowd the top of the class rankings.”

“How is that possible?” Charlie inquires. “What does magic usage have to do with having squibs?” 

Pansy shifts uncomfortably. “Well,” she starts, “In the old days, housewives were most often the most powerful magic users in the household since they were the teachers of family magic.” 

“Family magic?” Charlie repeats.

The room is still. None of the Purebloods will make eye contact, and Hermione observes the proceedings with an expression hovering somewhere between suspicious and pleased.

“I know a little bit about the subject, but not enough.” Hermione speaks finally. “Magic is of course particular to the experiences and natural gifts of every user, but there is a common… trend, of sorts, of the types of gifts that are consistent through family lines. Family magic is a topic of utmost secrecy amongst most magic users, as it is supposedly the strongest possible magic.”

“Perhaps, ah,” Blaise raises his voice slightly, swallowing nervously. “Perhaps I have an associate who knows more on the topic than your average wizard. Theo Nott’s father worked very intently on the topic when… when he was a Death Eater.”

“A Death Eater?” Susan’s voice climbs several pitches. “You’re going to invite a Death Eater into your home for a chat and a cuppa?”

Pansy’s pretty face has contorted into a furious expression Charlie hopes to never witness again, and he hurriedly intervenes before she kills the poor Hufflepuff.

“He isn’t a Death Eater.” Charlie assures the red-haired girl. “Theo could not help who his father was anymore than Miss Granger could help hers being Muggle. If Theo is a friend of Blaise’s, he is a friend of mine. I will swear an oath, if you like, promising that to my knowledge, there is no ill intent that is meant with this suggestion.”

Susan leans back wearily, but still looks vaguely impressed as she regards him. “I can appreciate loyalty, even if I think it is recklessly given.” she says finally. “I guess I’m alright with it. He came back for eighth year, didn’t he?” 

“Yes.” Pansy answers coldly, still looking rather testy as she eyes the other woman.

“I’ll go ahead and floo him the invitation.” Hermione offers graciously, slipping off to the kitchen.

“He’s connected.” Blaise calls after her, receiving a waved hand in response.

“That’s not very good security, Mr. Zabini.” Susan points out. “The more people connected to your floo, the more likely you are to be invaded.”

Blaise narrows his eyes in her direction, and Pansy tenses in anticipation.

“Miss Bones,” Blaise replies silkily. “I thank you sincerely for your concern over my well-being, but regret to inform you that I am not in the market for a wife.”

Susan flushes bright red, but before she can respond, Hermione has reentered the room with an ambling Theo in tow.

“Mr. Nott,” Charlie greets him.

“Hello.” Theo says quietly, choosing a seat between Hermione and Pansy. “I heard you were investigating a conspiracy being hidden from the magical population.”

“Straight to the point,” Charlie chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. We’re essentially just trying to figure out how things in the community have gotten this bad. Would you be willing to tell us what you know about family magic?” 

Theo tugs his beanie down over his ears, narrowing his eyes. 

“He doesn’t like questions.” Pansy defends him, putting her hand on his knee. “Theo, tell us about family magic.” 

“My father was in charge of recording any instances of family magic that occurred in the presence of Death Eaters.” he responds immediately. “Voldemort wanted a whole library of unfamiliar spells to use against his enemies, knowing the attack would be near impossible to defend against since the intricacies of family magic are only known by members.”

“I suppose no one could accuse the old asshole of being stupid.” Hermione mutters. “If family magic was held in as high of esteem as you’re all insinuating, than it’s quite a clever strategy for war.”

At the group’s perplexed looks, Hermione pauses, and then explains, “By creating a personal library of family magic, Voldemort could hypothetically use a Black family spell against the Bones in battle, and the Bones would have no idea how to counter it.”

“I believe that was the idea.” Theo agrees. “And it had rather far-reaching affects. My grandfather was briefly in charge of the research before my father joined, and so this tactic may have been employed as early as 1953. That was also around the time in which family magic ceased to be performed, out of what I believe was fear.”

“Wouldn’t they have just started right back up with using family magic after Voldemort fell the first time?” Susan asks.

“Obviously not.” Pansy snaps. “It must have been terrifying for people to meet Voldemort and not have any idea how to defend against magical attacks they were unfamiliar with, since he had hijacked the spells from Ancient families. It’s no wonder family magic hasn’t been taught to the last three generations. They were probably afraid to have a repeat of someone taking advantage.” 

“But could the lack of family magic really be the reason the magical population is declining in Britain?” Charlie asks. “Honestly, could it really have affected things that much?”

“It’s possible.” Hermione allows.

“I used to overhear my mother’s friends having a gossip whenever a Pureblood witch was found to be barren.” she admits. “If it was happening often enough when I was a child for my mother to be commenting on it, than it’s possible that this really could be a plausible explanation for our population’s decrease.”

“Gossip isn’t proof.” Susan points out. “Can any of us name a witch who actually was barren?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange.” Pansy and Hermione speak in tandem, and then share a startled look.

“I never considered her.” Theo muttered, pulling a pencil and notepad out of his hoodie and beginning to take notes.

“She mentioned it while torturing me, so I can’t honestly say whether it was true or not.” Hermione admits. “She… she spoke of how I stole her baby’s magic, and how Muggleborns were the reason she couldn’t produce an Heir. She was obsessed with it.” 

“God,” Blaise mutters. “What a crazy bitch.”

“You’re right on that.” Pansy says. “I heard it from my mother. Walburga Black was the Matriarch of the Black house at the time, and so she was in charge of teaching the children family magic. After her niece Andromeda, who was coincidentally Bellatrix’s sister, disowned the family to marry a Muggleborn wizard, Walburga supposedly went insane. She refused to teach the Black family magic to Narcissa and Bellatrix. Later on, when Sirius ran as well, she apparently died of the shame that she’d risked exposing the Black family magic to the wrong sort by teaching it to her niece and using it in the presence of her son.” 

“But Bellatrix was immensely powerful.” Susan argues. “Everyone knows how formidable she was in battle. She was nowhere near close to being a squib. Even if she didn’t use her family magic, she still had an immense amount of it.” 

“If she wasn’t using her purest magic, her family magic, than I don’t see how her battle skills would help her withering inner core.” Blaise counters. “If what we are saying is true, Miss Bones, and family magic truly is the brightest flame of ability within us, than lighting matches outside of the firepit will not keep the stones within warm.”

“So you really believe that by not using family magic, witches can become magically barren and not be able to have children?” Charlie insists.

“You know, it isn’t inherently the witches’ fault.” Pansy frowns. “Wizards can be sterile too. But of course, it’s only natural to blame the woman when wizards’ masculinity is in question.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Charlie states seriously. “I’m just trying to convince myself that this theory could be possible, because we don’t have very much concrete evidence that family magic has anything to do with our community’s apparent inability to procreate.”

“I can tell you that the Black family is a good place to start.” Hermione speaks slowly and pointedly. “How terrible for Andromeda and Narcissa that they were only able to produce one magical child each.”

“I get the point.” Charlie sighs. “But was that just their family, or common throughout the entire country?”

“I’d also like to add that Nymphadora Tonks was especially magical, having the gift of Metamorphism.” Susan says.

“What a magnificent point, Miss Bones!” Pansy smirks. “The most magically gifted member of the Black family was born to the only child from her generation to be taught some of the family magic.” 

“Maybe the Blacks were just insane.” Susan snaps. 

“What about my parents?” Charlie interjects hurriedly. “My mother had seven children, and she was one of three children herself. No barrenness there.”

“Don’t you remember, Charlie?” Hermione speaks candidly for a moment, leaning forward. “Don’t you remember how your mother could conjure cheese sauce out of thin air, how she could cut onions and potatoes without use of a wand, how she was able to make a decent meal out of anything? That was family magic. Seeing your mother do something supposedly impossible was actually what inspired me to first research the phenomenon, though I of course did not get very far.”

“How do you know that was family magic?” Charlie persists. 

“She told me.” Hermione answers. “She told Ginny and me, actually, many years ago. I remember her reminiscing to us about how when she was a girl growing up on the Prewett estate, she got to learn whatever magic she wanted instead of sitting through etiquette lessons like her brothers. I can specifically recall a story about an adaptation of Amortentia that she personally developed with her mother and aunts.”

“How is that possible?” Susan demands. “That was after Voldemort had taken power. Why would the Prewetts still have taught her family magic?”

“Pride.” Pansy is the one to answer. “It would have been pride. The Prewetts believed themselves near invincible, supposedly; it was rumored that it took five Death Eaters attacking simultaneously to finally take down the twin Lord Prewetts. It makes sense that they wouldn’t take the threat of Voldemort seriously enough to cease their longstanding traditions, if they were that talented at magic.” 

“I don’t think Molly ever stopped using her family magic, even if she never taught it to her own children.” Hermione says quietly.

“I have a theory which may prove relevant to this discussion.” Theo states.

“Tell us, Theo.” Blaise says gently.

“I have gone through my father’s work many times in the last two years, trying to figure out why he made the decisions he did, and I believe he is partially to blame for the mass prejudice Purebloods perpetuated towards Muggleborns.

“It isn’t quite clear how he did it, but I believe the Dark Lord planted the seed in Pureblood families that if they allowed their children to marry Half Bloods or Muggleborns, they would be risking their own security. He insinuated that if Pureblood families allowed people with unestablished ancestry into their circle, they might be risking their family magic being learned and then exploited if that new member should ever leave.”

“How does that make any sense?” Susan demands.

“Isn’t it obvious, Miss Bones?” Blaise cocks his head. “The Muggleborns have no illustrious reputation, no family honor to uphold. They have no ties to the secrecy, no real reason to keep knowledge of the family magic out of enemy hands, and they were seen as power-hungry heathens.”

“That is idiotic.” Pansy interjects. “Granger’s an Unspeakable, for crying out loud. If she can be trusted to keep the secrets of the wizarding world, she can certainly keep a couple of ancient spells under wraps.”

“Unfortunately, most Purebloods wouldn’t know that, since they were banned from interacting with outsiders who didn’t have equally long family lines.” Theo states. “We all were pressured to believe this. I think my family spread propaganda that non-Pureblood members of Ancient families were the ones most likely to reveal family magic while battling the enemy side. 

“It wasn’t just Voldemort supporters who were afraid their family magic would be exploited by Order members if they used it in public; Dumbledore-supporting Purebloods were terrified of the same situation. Nobody would have known the true statistics other than my father, so the rumors were just believable enough to inspire panic on both sides.” 

“The Dark Lord made non-Purebloods look completely untrustworthy.” Susan sighs.

“He made us look like idiots.” Hermione states. 

“It was the smartest thing he ever did.” Theo agrees. “Inspiring blood hysteria by threatening the betrayal of family magic made every generation thereafter weaker than ever before.”

“It’s a shame family magic stopped being taught.” Susan laments. “I once saw my Aunt perform a wandless spell that barricaded our house, but she refuses to teach me the magic when I ask, even though the war has long ended. She’s still too afraid to reveal any family magic. I think it’s ingrained in every generation following Voldemort’s rise to never share any of the knowledge out of fear, even with members of their own family.”

“If I may,” Hermione speaks up. “I have some thoughts I believe are safe to share. Assuming family magic is the core of magical ability, and that it is far more individualized and powerful than the basic magic taught at Hogwarts, than it wouldn’t be a far leap to assume that it may affect how strong certain bloodlines can become. What if the longer the lineage, assuming all members are taught their family’s magic, the stronger the offspring can theoretically become?”

“I disagree.” Theo says. “Muggleborns nowadays are largely stronger than Purebloods, we just don’t have the data to prove it since most Muggleborns leave Britain without pursuing a magical career.” 

The entire group stares at Theo in shock, while he clasps his hands primly on his knees.

“And what evidence do you have to support that statement?” Pansy demands.

Theo stares at her, and she sighs in frustration.

“Explain to me your evidence, Theo.” Pansy snaps. 

“Common sense.” he replies serenely. “Muggleborns don’t have any knowledge of family magic to be deprived of, because they are, for all intents and purposes, the first in their line. All of their magical talent is conceivably available to them. It’s just a matter of figuring out what their natural gifts are. Pureblood children, on the other hand, are being denied guidance towards their given abilities, and are unable to exercise the purest forms of their magic, so must therefore be weaker in power.”

“My God,” Hermione says, staring at Theo as if his face has been transfigured into the sun. “I need to call Draco. If that’s true, then one could imply that magic is indeed not made equal across all magic users, just as I suspected with the lineage theory! What if we take it a step further, and suppose that certain family’s magic is more suited to certain gifts than others, like how Slytherin was allegedly brilliant at creature magic, and Harry has the gift of Parseltongue naturally as his descendant?”

“Harry is what?” Blaise asks faintly. “Slytherin’s actual descendant?”

“It makes perfect sense!” Hermione crows, “But Christ, this is on a much grander scale than I ever anticipated when I looked into the subject. Are certain families more suited for Transfiguration, because their family magic prefers it? And maybe Divination, since that’s supposedly a hereditary talent? The implications of this are outrageous!”

“I think I’m having a panic attack.” Blaise says.

“I think I am as well.” Susan mutters faintly.

“What if the magic being taught at Hogwarts is just a raindrop of general knowledge in the ocean of magical possibility? What if we are barely educated with what we have learned, compared to the intense specialization one could possibly achieve through family magic?” Hermione states, bouncing where she sits. “What if witches and wizards could delve so much deeper into their powers if they only knew what their magic was already best suited for?”

“I agree with Parkinson, there is no proof that any of what you’re saying is true.” Susan says shakily.

“Really?” Theo interjects. “Because the only student who could beat me in Arithmancy was Hermione, and I spent every conceivable moment studying for that class. She spent the bare minimum of time on the subject considering she was pursuing a NEWT in it, and yet her enchantments were eons stronger than mine every single time, even though I witnessed her make small mistakes with my own two eyes, and I know every equation I had was perfect.”

Hermione’s mouth drops open, an argument clear on the horizon, but Theo holds up a hand, and she nods reluctantly for him to continue.

“She was simply stronger than me.” Theo declares. “And yet I have a line of Pureblood ancestry so elite, Voldemort himself could not have compared. Perhaps her family magic, her innermost magic, is simply better suited for enchanting than mine. If she was indeed performing the magic most suited to her, it could explain why her enchanting was so much stronger.”

“I may have some personal experience to back this theory up.” Charlie admits. “Other countries did not stop teaching family magic the way Britain did, right? Well, when I first arrived in Romania, the excessive number of Masters was shocking. Britain only acknowledges about ten basic masteries through Hogwarts, and only a few dozen adults every century ever achieve them in our country. Why is that? 

“Romania offers hundreds of different masteries. My supervisor that first year after graduation was a Master of Dragons, yet all we offer here is a general Care of Magical Creatures mastery. A girl in my first squad was apprenticing for a mastery in Transfigurative Potions, but here in Britain would you ever think those subjects could be combined, let alone mastered? Of course not, because it isn’t taught at Hogwarts.”

“It’s like you said before, old boy.” Blaise agrees. “Britain only acknowledges about ten masteries, and the subjects are all rather general. What if Miss Granger’s true talent lies in ward constructing? That’s not a mastery acknowledged here, and the subject of Arithmancy is just one small part of enchantment magic that is barely acknowledged anyways in the Hogwarts curriculum. 

“It’s unlikely Miss Granger would pursue a mastery for a subject that isn’t quite right for her, like Arithmancy, so she would probably never have the chance to discover that the core of her magical ability is perfectly suited for ward constructing, especially if she trusts her experience at Hogwarts to be the height of magical education.”

“Draco is never ditching a plotting session again,” Hermione pants, scribbling furiously on a purloined piece of paper stolen from Theo’s notebook, and a pen which apparently has appeared out of thin air. 

“Hermione doesn’t count as real evidence of the Muggleborn Power Maniac Theory, since she’s a genius without magic.” Pansy argues. “What about Dean Thomas? He could barely hold a wand right side up.”

“You claim more Muggleborns graduates return to the Muggle world rather than stay in the magical one, but if they’re more powerful, than why would they leave?” she points out.

“It all comes back to the original asshole, Tom Riddle.” Blaise replies. “I bet he purposefully ostracized non-Purebloods in our community so he could systematically force out the strongest players while retaining control over a fearful group of Purebloods.”

“I bet that Muggleborns leaving is part of the reason our population is decreasing, all war-related deaths aside.” Susan offers. “Even Pureblood families occasionally need strong outcrosses to maintain magical offspring, and on that note, inbreeding amongst Purebloods may also have contributed to the rising squib population. 

“But if strong Muggleborn partners are not mating with Purebloods and adding their new power to the ancient lines, perhaps family magic is stagnating by being kept amongst a small group of elite families. No matter if the members are being taught family magic or not, the occasional outcross is completely necessary for even the purest line to be strong. It could be a contributing factor.”

When every person in the room looks at Susan askance, she says, “I breed Kneazles for a hobby. I know this stuff, alright?” 

“You may be onto something, Susan.” Hermione encourages her. “Transfigurative Potions is such a specific aptitude that I bet it can only be produced through mixing unusual abilities in different bloodlines. Weak, general magic taught at Hogwarts won’t encourage rare abilities to arise in offspring.”

“That can’t be true, because then every Pureblood family in Britain would be squibs by now.” Pansy argues. “And we know that Purebloods can still be powerful. Take Narcissa Malfoy, for example. She’s the strongest practitioner of the Mind Arts in this century! She resisted the full force of Voldemort’s mental attack while feeding him the greatest lie of her life, and guess what? She managed to fool the darkest wizard of the age.” 

Susan, Blaise, Charlie, and even Theo are shocked into silence by this revelation, but Hermione offers her staunchest nod of support.

“Won’t you get into trouble for speaking so candidly, Hermione?” Theo asks quietly, peering at her with considerable distress.

“No.” she snorts. “I’m only bound once I enter the findings into the DoM records. New theory isn’t affected.”

“Narcissa’s magic may well have been suited for the Mind Arts.” Charlie decides finally. “But that branch of magic is very obscure in Britain, so she wouldn’t have learned it at Hogwarts. The only way she would have discovered and exercised a talent like that, even if it was her most natural expression of magic, is if she apprenticed under a Master teacher.”

“I believe I may have the answer to that.” Hermione admits. “And it isn’t ministerial knowledge, so I can share it, though I ask that it not spread beyond this room. I suspect that Narcissa’s mother was fond of punishing her daughters with Legillimency. I was told that the only reason Belltrix wasn’t disowned from her family for not having an Heir was because she proved to be so useful to the Dark Lord, who her mother supported.

“When I was being tortured by Bellatrix, I got the impression from her words and behavior that her mind was fractured long before Voldemort captured her devotion. Narcissa may have learned to exercise mental defenses when dealing with her mother, and if she was already gifted by family magic in that area, it would explain how she achieved such talent at a relatively young age.”

“If their mother was talented enough in the Mind Arts to use it as means of punishment, then that leads credence to the theory that Mind Arts may have been a Black family gift.” Susan adds. “It would explain why Narcissa’s powers manifested in Occlumency, while her mother’s magic manifested in Legillimency. Though family magic may effect the area of expertise, each user’s magic is specific to themselves, right?”

“What if I’m wrong about all of this, and Muggleborns really are just the first users in a long line of squibs who are powerful enough to be considered magical? That’s what has always been assumed.” Theo points out.

Hermione shakes her head resolutely, and says, “I cannot say anything more, as it is official ministry business.” 

“My God,” Pansy breathes, sitting back. “So Muggleborns really don’t have obscure magical ancestry.” 

“I actually did some research about my lineage when I first went to Hogwarts because I love to find things out and I was curious about who my parents were.” Susan reveals. “Sprout gave me special permission to go into the official Hogwarts registry, which lists every student from the last thousand years and their blood status. 

“I wondered why it seemed like there were next to no magical children born to two Muggleborn parents. Most everyone I noticed was born to two Pureblood parents, a Pureblood parent who married a Half Blood or Muggle parent, or two purely Muggle parents. Rarely would Muggleborns marry magical partners.”

Noticing the looks being sent her way, Susan defends herself by adding, “Before you state the obvious, I would like to point out that I counted more Purebloods marrying Muggles than marrying Muggleborns. And that does not make sense. 

“Wouldn’t Purebloods want to marry someone magical first and foremost, to give their child the best chance? This discrepancy bothered me, and I still think about it after all these years. Muggleborns were the least common parent in the registry, and I couldn’t figure out why.”

“I think that still comes back to Voldemort.” Theo says. “I remember my father being instructed to encourage Purebloods to marry attractive Muggles if a Pureblood match could not be made. My father convinced them that this way, the children would at least be beautiful, and the family magic of the Pureblood’s house would shine through unadulterated. It was not seen as worth the risk of a Muggleborn infiltrating the family, not when an easily-controlled Muggle could be chosen for the task.”

“Voldemort taught Purebloods to fear what cannot be controlled.” Charlie sighs. 

“I was shocked when I first attended Hogwarts.” Blaise reveals. “I was raised in the fine country of Italy, where there is next to no blood bias, so I was stunned that my classmates were attacking Muggleborns persistently for the mere crime of being unexplainably magical. I realized eventually that their parents were encouraging it.”

“Well, after all this, it seems kind of obvious why our population is declining.” Susan snorts. “All these factors have made it near impossible to have magical children in peace.”

“Part of the problem is that certain families are unwilling to associate with the ‘wrong sort’,” Pansy spits, crossing her arms. “So possible matches in an already stressed population are cut in half, again. Children become so biased against other houses in Hogwarts that they never grow out of it, just like their parents.”

“That’s mostly Voldemort supporters’ fault.” Susan protests. 

“Do you really think the Purebloods in Dumbledore’s court were any less predjudiced?” Pansy snorts. “Please. How about the Gryffindor Muggleborns hating Slytherins at the tender age of eleven, just because their housemates told them to? How about the fact that your own sweet little house actively encouraged the rumor that Harry Potter’s parseltongue ability was dark magic he should be ashamed of in second year, when it was probably an innate talent to do with his family magic? Get off your high horse. You were no better than the rest of us, just prejudiced over different things.”

Susan has gone white, her mouth hanging open, but she eventually swallows and leans as close to Pansy as possible.

“I am sorry.” she says, holding out a hand. “I offer my most sincerest apologies for speaking so rudely about things I did not understand, and hope you will forgive me.” 

“Oh.” Pansy says. “Well. I suppose that is acceptable. I forgive your transgressions.”

The two women shake hands firmly, and Charlie could light the room with the proud smile he directs at Pansy.

“Not to interrupt,” Hermione says, “But I’ve thought of something else. If Muggleborns are leaving Britain due to perceived bias, it’s likely that they’re sending any magical children of theirs to other magical institutions. That would explain why Muggleborn parents are rarely recorded in the Hogwarts registry.”

“You’re doing that population census project because we could die out, couldn’t we?” Blaise asserts suddenly.

Hermione looks at him in surprise, and then says, “I cannot say anything further, as it is official ministry business,” with a firm conviction that draws all the air from the room.

“No.” Charlie protests. “It can’t have gotten that bad. Just three generations of bad luck is all it takes to endanger an entire society?” 

“Seamus Finnigan, Neville Longbottom, Dean Thomas, Harry Potter, Ernie Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Draco Malfoy, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini.” Hermione lists off.

“What?” Charlie asks, completely bewildered.

“Those are all of the male Heirs in our year who were only children.” Pansy explains. “It’s quite startling, when you think about it. Witches just aren’t having multiple kids. A single Heir leaves the family lines vulnerable.”

Hermione adds, “I could probably name every only child who attended Hogwarts while we did, but it would take me a while, and that would frighten you to pieces, I suspect.”

“Correct.” Pansy sighs.

“But regardless, the Weasleys should be the norm, not the exception.” Hermione states. “Things cannot continue as they are.”

“So, this is what you’re doing.” Susan says, gesturing wildly. “All of this, it’s because you’re going to use Mr. Prewett’s presentation in front of the Wizengamot as a vehicle for change.”

“Yes, that is essentially the ultimate goal.” Hermione confirms.

“You should have explained it all to me initially.” Susan chastises the group, brown eyes flashing. “I’m on board. This is our world, and we are obligated to do what we can to protect and improve it to the best of our abilities, and that’s not family magic, that’s just being a good human being. So, what have you done so far? I assume I’m here because I also grew up with the old ways, only in Dumbledore’s camp.”

“Right in one, Miss Bones.” Blaise praises her lightly.

Susan flushes rather pink, but they all choose not to comment on it.

“I’m sneaky, I confess.” Pansy says. “I didn’t anticipate that we’d ever actually be going through with this, but… a small part of me had hope. When I ordered Mr. Charlie’s presentation robes, I chose Runespoors skin dyed black.”

“He’ll be wearing mourning colors,” Susan ascertains. “Clever of you.”

“I apologize for not divulging my plans from the start, Mr. Charlie.” Pansy appeals to the man with wide eyes and a worried lip.

“You’re forgiven, of course you are.” he chuckles. “Actually, you’ve given me an idea of what I should say when I get up there.”

“The revolution begins,” Theo says under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It’s about three times the usual length because I am currently on vacation, and probably will not be able to update again until next week. I actually read through this one before posting it, but there’s a lot going on, so feel free to ask questions if anything’s unclear! If I misspelled anything, you have my most sincerest, Pansy-esque apologies. 
> 
> \--PBY


	15. Charlie is Certain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

There is an air of solidarity among those currently gathered in Charlie’s apartment. All of them have dressed in their snobbiest, most expensive Pureblood attire, and all of them wait for the impending jaunt at the ministry with steadfast expressions on their faces.

Pansy has not dressed like this since she was fifteen. Wrapped in an Acromantula silk gown, the thigh slit cut high enough to expose her bare hip, hair curled dangerously high upon her head, an heirloom tiara pilfered from her Gringotts vault glimmering as brightly as her eyes, she is a sight to behold. 

Typically, the bank would have never let her enter the Parkinson vaults to retrieve the tiara without her cooperation in reading her father’s will. Pansy unfortunately discovered that she could not just use her loophole crest or puppy dog eyes to find away around the boundary and retrieve any jewelry from the vaults. However, upon hearing her reasoning behind the failed endeavor, Griphook had astonishingly made an exception and personally obtained the item for her to use on this day. 

That blasted Goblin really should be fired. That’s twice now that he’s explicitly broken protocol on my account. 

To her right, Daphne Greengrass stands tall in Kelpie skin that had been hurriedly stitched into an outfit and thrown in her direction by a harried Blaise just an hour prior. He had been too busy cursing her for not ordering her own outfit from a shop like a sensible human being to bask much in her generous compliments for the gown. The high-necked creation fit her like a glove, and her face, while flushed with nerves, clearly conveyed her confidence while wearing it.

Theo and Blaise had elected to dress in matching ensembles, wearing robes cut from the skin of Horned Serpents and pants laced higher than the current fashions allowed. They’d decided as a group to uphold the oldest traditions any of them could remember, and dress in the fashions preferred by the earliest generations who had presented within the ministry. 

The wizards all chose to don knee-high boots and bejeweled cuffs, and elected to wear neck cravats bearing their house sigils rather than more modern ties. Their robes had been designed in the old styles, cut high and tight on the chest and waists, and only hanging long in the back. 

All have their family rings displayed on their left hands, as is proper. Until Heirs present themselves and marry, when it is appropriate to switch the ring to the right hand to make room for wedding bands, family rings are expected to sit on the left ring finger at all times. While most of these Heirs have not touched the rings since the war, when the bands were stripped from their fathers before either imprisonment or burial, they all agreed it would be a smart move to remind the wizarding community of their impending future presentations. 

One day, they will all be Lords, and will hold seats on the Wizengamot and have a vote in all legal affairs. The prospect once paralyzed them, but in this moment, they are grateful. Theo cannot stop twisting his ring, and though Blaise looks irritated and rather twitchy over the constant fidgeting, he says nothing. 

Draco hovers completely still beside a radiating Hermione. The Slytherin had donned the same outfit as his fellow Heirs, but in the spirit of originality, his companion had chosen a different route. While Pansy and Daphne had technically followed the rules of how a Pureblood daughter should dress (no loose hair, no bare hands, no cleavage below the collarbone), Hermione opted for a different approach.

A thin layer of netting starting below her collarbone may have shielded her ample chest from being bare, but the V shaped neckline of the leather romper wandered far too low for her to maintain any semblance of formality. Her belly button might have showed through the netting, if Pansy hadn’t forced a wide belt around her waist. 

While Pansy and Daphne had conformed to expectation and worn dresses rather than pants (albeit tight, alluring dresses that their mother would have whipped them for owning), Hermione stood proudly in leather trousers and towering heeled boots. Her long sleeves and gloves left only her face bare in its full glory. Not an inch of her skin from throat to toe was left uncovered, but whatever wasn’t weakly covered by netting was so tightly bound in leather that imagination was not necessary to get an idea of her fitness.

Hermione’s hair curled wildly down her back, dyed her own natural brown for the first time in over two years. Her face was set, her fists were clenched, and she bore the sigils of the houses of Malfoy, Nott, Zabini and Prewett on her necklace, respectively. Nobody would be willing to touch her with such powerful allies so obviously displayed on her person, despite the damage done to their names. 

Pansy and Daphne had decided to wear the sigils of their friends on identical bracelets hurriedly ordered by Draco, as an extra layer of protection, but the real surprise was when Susan Bones asked for a matching piece. The redhead currently stands firmly next to Blaise, wrapped in a dress made of Thunderbird feathers and a ferocity they could all feel thrumming through her, even from several feet away.

Pansy will never again question the loyalty of a Hufflepuff.

For when Susan had asked her Aunt Amelia for a house piece to wear for this occasion, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had nearly disowned her. Susan has been staying in one of Blaise’s many apartments ever since, and though her new friends do not know every detail of the poor girl’s family problems, they are all familiar enough with the territory to understand the gist of it and not press for details. 

Ironically, Susan had been informed via owl just a day after leaving home that Griphook would be willing to employ a Goblin associate of his to create her a brooch bearing her house sigil for a very reasonable cost. Though she was rightly suspicious of why Pansy’s boss would offer such a favor, despite the widely known truth of Goblins loathing when their creations fall into the hands of wizards, Susan was not apt to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Upon further interrogation by Pansy, Griphook had reluctantly admitted that he had a stake in their battle as well, though he would not disclose the nature of his stake and had threatened her job if she brought it up again. The new brooch shines on Susan’s chest like a beacon, boasting her wealth and status as a member of the Bones family simultaneously. 

There they stand, dressed to the nines, all looking to Charlie Prewett for one last word of advice.

Charlie had underwent a firestorm never seen before when it was reported in a rag magazine that he’d been spotted in Diagon Alley with Pansy Parkinson, and had been overheard requesting to enter his mother’s family vaults. Interestingly, Griphook chose the very next evening to submit an announcement on Charlie’s behalf inviting the Wizengamot to his official presentation as the new Lord Prewett. 

The wizarding world went off the deep end, assaulting Charlie’s apartment with enough letters to have Blaise shooting off curses at wayward mail, but nobody lose it quite like Molly Weasley. While she had intended to continue maintaining her silence towards Charlie after the Pansy article was printed, all sense was shot when she laid eyes on the new Lordship announcement. 

The woman had showed up at Gringotts in a screaming rage, demanding to know which Goblin had poisoned her family, and where her son was. When denied, Molly had pulled her wand on the bank teller who bore the bad news. It had taken some quick intervening on Bill’s part and a deal made hastily with the squad Goblin Warriors, who had arrived on the scene with swords drawn, to spare the woman’s life. 

Never again would Molly Weasley be able to enter Gringotts and leave with her head still attached to her shoulders. 

Met with no success at the bank, Molly had headed for Bill’s seaside cottage with the intent of badgering Fleur into revealing Charlie’s location, since her eldest son was obviously in on this whole disgusting ordeal. She had returned with clothing singed, a broken wand, and a mood so dastardly that Ron and Ginny took cover in Harry’s house for a few days thereafter. 

Bill had nearly headed to the ministry to officially present right then and there when he found out what his mother had done so he could disown her from the family, tradition be damned, but Fleur had stopped him. 

She had laughed at his anger, her engagement band sparkling as she soothed her husband and rested a hand on her bulging stomach. Confused, Bill had paused long enough to listen to her version of events. Fleur had informed him that no witch would be able to take on a Veela on her worst day, let alone a pregnant Champion with the advantage of amplified powers. 

Apparently, the Veela species are strongest magically when bearing children, most likely as a way to encourage them to procreate and continue the line. Molly did not have a chance in hell of taking down Fleur Delacour Weasely, Beauxbatons Champion and dueling extraordinaire, no matter the circumstances. Fleur had laughed in her face once her mother-in-law realized she’d been bested, her wand snapped in two on the floor, and the Veela went on to make a cup of tea as Molly did her best vocal damage before departing.

Fleur had been glowing when Pansy flooed by to check on her after hearing of the incident, just in case, and the French witch had gone so far as to boast that her unborn daughter would be a prized dueler. Fleur had never before unleashed a wave of magic as strong as what had come out of her when Molly had attacked. She claimed it was evidence that her second-born would share her proclivity for offensive magic.

Pansy had enthusiastically offered to fetch the Aurors to report the incident and perhaps hold the Weasley hag accountable, but Fleur had waved her off with a “Bah! In France, we deal with these problems ourselves, witch to witch. She will not come by again, I assure you, sweet girl!”. 

The eldest Delacour daughter was unfortunately deemed unfit to attend Charlie’s presentation due to her late pregnancy, and will not be joining her husband in supporting them at the ministry today. Her healer is recommending no magical transport of any kind until the baby’s arrival, which could be a few weeks yet. In lieu of her presence, Fleur has sent something almost as valuable in her place; the likely new Lady of the House of Delacour, her younger sister Gabrielle.

According to French magical law, the firstborn child, regardless of gender, is the rightful Heir of the family line. Obviously, the Brits believe only male children can be rightful Heirs. This poses a bit of a problem for intermarriages. 

After the French and British magical communities briefly united against a rising Dark Lord during the French Muggle revolution in 1799, the ministries had been forced to come to an agreement about their differing inheritance laws. It had become popular for French and British aristocrats to intermix after standing together in battle.

The two governments eventually decided that should a female French Heir marry a British male Heir, she must forfeit her claim to being Head of her French family if she wants to raise her children in Britain. The responsibility of being Heir then falls to her younger sibling, which in this case, is Gabrielle. 

If Gabrielle is married before Fleur’s second son comes of age, Gabrielle will claim the Head of the family position for herself. It’s all very complicated, and the conjoined laws took months for wizards to sort out thanks to language barriers and cultural differences. Fleur is rather unbothered by the idea that Gabrielle will probably be Lady Delacour, rather than her. 

Gabrielle has been flouncing around Charlie’s apartment since she arrived via Floo this morning. She has thus far criticized the sparse interior décor, selection of aperitifs (solely vodka, offered by Blaise), and the British ministry as a whole. The poor girl has gained herself a slew of new best friends, for not even Hermione can find fault in her assessment. 

The Muggleborn has been eyeing the young Veela ever since she arrived, looking rather ill. Gabrielle took no notice, choosing instead to crack jokes and strike up conversations with every person she could get her hands on. Even Draco could not escape her enthusiasm. 

Dressed in a set of robes cut in the fiercest fashion available in France, Gabrielle is burning with excitement where she stands next to Theo Nott. She’s showing too much leg, and her silver hair is hanging loose, and by God, she’s about to walk into the ministry with her bare shoulders showing- but she is here. 

Gabrielle Delacour, soon to be one of the richest witches in France and Head of a powerful family, is here to support them in this circus they’re about to create.

“Well,” Charlie sighs, raking his fingers through his hair. He’s dressed in the Runespoor-skin robe, the trousers with the buttons made of diamond, and a neck cravat bearing the glowing Prewett sigil, casting his face in a dangerous light.

“Chin up, old boy.” Blaise offers. “They can’t take us all out, right?”

“They won’t take anyone out.” Susan interjects, crossing her arms. “If offensive magic was cast in the Wizengamot chambers, not even Harry Potter himself could save the caster from a stint in Azkaban. We’ll all be fine.”

“Do you remember what you’re going to say?” Hermione inquires, peering into Charlie’s face.

He nods firmly. “We’ve gone over it a million times the last few days. There’s nothing left to do to prepare. We’ve rehearsed every word, we’ve dressed to look as intimidating as possible, and now all we have to do is go in there and get it done.”

“Here, here!” Gabrielle crows, tossing up her fist in an exaggerated gesture of strength.

“Here, here.” Theo imitates her quietly, holding up his own shaking fist.

“We might as well all do it.” Pansy sighs, raising her fist alongside the rest of the motley crew amid cries of ‘here, here!’.

“What shall our battle cry be?” Blaise whispers.

“To justice?” Hermione offers.

“To the future.” Susan declares.

“To the future!” they all intone. 

“Now,” Charlie clasps Pansy’s hand, squeezing it tightly upon seeing the fear in her face, and then places it appropriately on his arm. “It’s time to go.”

“Alright, everyone, remember the plan!” Hermione frets, bouncing on the balls of her feet even as Draco pets her arm soothingly.

“Yes, yes, you mad mistress, we’re all getting into places.” Blaise snickers. 

“Ready?” Charlie whispers to Pansy.

She sets her shoulders determinedly. “Murder.” she mutters.

“Excuse me?” Charlie snorts. “That is not why we are going there, young Lady!”

“Oh, shut up.” Pansy whispers. “It’s just something I do when I’m nervous. Set my shoulders, chin up high, and think murder. It helps me look intimidating.”

“Ah,” Charlie’s laughing now. “I see your Slytherin upbringing has been quite fruitful.”

“Focus, will you?” she hisses. “Our lives all depend on this.”

“We won’t lose, Pansy.” Charlie is struck with the urge to take her face into his hands and kiss her, but does not in fear of Hermione going on a rampage if he steps out of his place in line.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” she rolls her eyes.

“Pansy Parkinson, I am going to take you on the evening of your life when this is over.” Charlie informs her. “And if I’m lucky, I’m going to drink too much and ravish your body with kisses and make outrageous proclamations of my undying love, which you will protest against, but secretly enjoy.”

“Charlie!” she hisses, smacking his arm.

He smirks. “That’s my girl.”

And then they step into the floo, call out the ministry atrium, and disappear.

“To the future.” Theo whispers, stepping forward to follow suit with Daphne.

“To the future!” Gabby giggles, flouncing into the fire with Blaise and Susan.

“To the future.” Hermione says to Draco, striding into battle on his arm. 

When Charlie and Pansy step silently into the Atrium, the contained groups of reporters on either side of the path to the elevators scramble and nearly come to blows as they attempt to get the perfect shot of the imposing pair. 

When Daphne and Theo come directly behind them and stand firmly on the couple’s left, the reporters falter, but trade pushing for shouting inquiries at the young group. 

When Blaise emerges from the fire escorting a Veela on one arm and Susan Bones on the other, the reporters begin screaming with fervor as the new arrivals set themselves on the couple’s right. Wands are drawn as the journalists attempt to get the whole lot of them in a single picture. 

When Hermione Granger emerges on the arm of Draco Malfoy and steps in front of the assembly, the entire Atrium falls silent. 

For it now has registered with the reporters who exactly these women are, bearing sigils of multiple Sacred houses and wearing heirloom jewelry. It occurs to them that the men are dressed in a style not seen within these walls for hundreds of years, and that they are also wearing their sigils as proudly as they present the Death Eater spawn holding onto their arms. 

Hermione Granger’s presence is what makes them understand, though she does not say a single word for the few moments she stands before them. The expression that dawns on her face is so full of fury, so condemning as she turns to lead the charge boldly to the lifts, that it is suddenly obvious why all of these young Heirs are dressed in black.

This is not a presentation. This is a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is. We have arrived at the ministry, where the inheritance drama all will go down. I can't believe that fifteen chapters behind schedule, it's finally happening. This was going to be in the second chapter, before I got way ahead of myself. 
> 
> I'm having trouble posting on the other site I'm currently uploading TPP to, but everything is working swimmingly over here, so I see no harm in posting this chapter now for your immediate enjoyment. I'll catch up my uploads on the other site as soon as I'm able, if anyone from over there happens to find me here. 
> 
> For now, we continue the saga. Let me know how you feel about our motley crew of revolutionaries! Were you surprised to see Gabrielle make an appearance? I'm always excited to know what you think, as your suggestions are always inspiring. 
> 
> \--PBY


	16. They are Radiant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

Pansy is silent where she sits sandwiched between Blaise and Draco, her back ramrod straight. The eight of them are lined up like a row of sitting ducks, just waiting for curses to sail at them and cut their miserable lives short. The group of graduates fills the entire third row of the public gallery, which was helpfully warded and reserved by Theo (in disguise) the day prior. 

The masses all clamoring for their own seats may have initially complained to security Aurors that someone had warded the third row from being accessed, but once they caught sight of black-clothed criminals trooping into the gallery to take their unlawfully reserved places amongst the general public, there was suddenly a mass exodus among those who had selected seats nearby. Only reporters dared to risk their lives sitting so near to targeted people by filling up the abruptly empty second and fourth rows. 

Blaise nudges his knee ever so briefly against Pansy’s own. It would not do to touch hands or any other ridiculous sign of affection in public, not with so many cameras trained on them and not with so many eyes trained on their persons with fury. Thoughts fly freely as the crowd looks on.

-Those cretins are the reason my baby died in the war-, and, -those monsters were created from the loins of the devil himself-, are most common amongst casual observers. 

Not even Gabrielle is immune to the total animosity, though the air of confusion in the crowd is stronger. Many silently agree that the Greengrass and Parkinson chits are worth a curse or two, and the same goes for the Zabini, Nott, and Malfoy Heirs, but… what to do with the rest of them? 

Hermione Granger: British war hero and best friend of Harry Potter. Gabrielle Delacour (her identity helpfully supplied by a loudly whispering Rite Skeeter parked in the first row): darling of France, soon to be Head of an ancient French family with rumored connections to royalty. Most surprising of all, Susan Bones: the sole niece of the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. 

Amelia Bones is seated to the right of the Chief Warlock- or in this case, witch. Chief Belvina Burke was named after her late mother, Belvina Burke née Black, who mercifully died before Voldemort arose. With a tenuous relation to Sirius Black (a man posthumously honored for dying a hero on the winning side) and a decidedly neutral Pureblood last name, Belvina was a shoe-in for the position of Chief following the end of the second war.

At the relatively young age of just 45, Belvina is yet unmarried, though nasty wizards will whisper to each other that the Burke bitch is fucking them all with her soft leadership. As Chief of the Wizengamot, she is the only member with the power to deal out sentences to criminals. The position has not been held by an impartial candidate who cannot be bought or threatened for many years. 

Sitting as stiffly as Pansy and Dapne, the Chief Witch appears completely unbothered by the circus this meeting is slowly descending into. Gossipers have led a crescendo of whispers into a blast true chatter, and the undercurrent of unease in the room is not lost on any observer. 

Amelia Bones, on the other hand, is not so unfazed. The Head of the DMLE sits clenching her fists with red-faced anger, eyes trained solely on her niece, who meets her gaze just as crossly. Pansy thinks to herself that perhaps Gryffindors are unfairly dubbed the house with horrible tempers. 

Charlie stands languidly before the dais, awaiting Belvina’s signal to begin.

“Alright.” she eventually sighs, climbing to her feet and rapping her gavel on the podium. “I call to order this meeting of the Wizengamot, on March 23rd, 2000. We have gathered here today to witness the formal presentation of Lord Charles Prewett, hailing originally from the Most Noble and Ancient House of Weasley. Lord Prewett lays claim to his title through his mother, Lady Molly Weasley née Prewett.”

Belvina pauses, staring down at the young Lord with an air of curiosity. “You may introduce yourself before these witnesses, Lord Prewett.”

The hall collectively turns their attention on Charlie. 

In the past, formal presentations were a raucous affair. The hall would typically be decorated with aspects of the new Lord’s family crest, and oftentimes, magical creatures would be invited to invoke a personal touch in the ceremony. It’s rumored that Abraxas Malfoy had fifty peacocks tethered within this very hall for his own presentation, and served rare Elvin wine to all who attended. 

A formal ball always followed the customary Wizengamot meeting, allowing the new Lord a chance to celebrate and show off his wealth. Depending on the financial situation of the hosting family, the party would sometimes last for multiple days and nights. Abraxas’s presentation was supposedly the event of the century, and ironically, also marked the last time Malfoy Manor was opened to the general public. Lucius Malfoy only invited Purebloods to his own ball held all those years ago. Draco hasn’t been able to bear the thought of presenting himself since Lucius’s death.

Charlie clasps his hands on his provided podium, and nods in the respectfully direction of the Chief Witch.

“Thank you, Miss Burke.” he says. “I understand that your formal presentation is the most important moment of a Lord’s life, as it is the only time which the entire wizarding community comes together to bear witness to his words, so I shall endeavor to make them count.” 

The audience shifts uneasily, shooting furtive glances at each other. 

“So,” Charlie stares at out the crowd. “I will begin by declaring a moment of silence. Some of you may have recognized that my dress is much more significant than just an advert for the latest fashions. I am clothed in mourning colors to honor the many magical lives that were unnecessarily snuffed out by the wayward leadership we have endured for the last half-century. Please bow with me now, to remember our lost loved ones.”

Though Charlie lowers his head, and the third row immediately follows suit, the rest of the audience is so flabbergasted by the unusual route this presentation has taken that it is a few moments more before they do the same. All through the room, mind begin racing.

-This moment is for you, Charity- Minerva McGonagall thinks to herself. -You were the best Muggle Studies Professor that school ever saw-

-Why would the boy specifically say wayward leadership instead of crimes of dark wizards? Surely he couldn’t mean to imply that Dumbledore was unfit- Grace Macmillan frets silently.

-This Weasley person has balls for insinuating that the old coot was equally at fault as the Dark Lord, you have to give credit where it is due- Anita Travers née Mulciber admits. 

“Thank you.” Charlie raises his face to the crowd. “Now, I would like to speak briefly of one of my most honorable ancestors. Marlena Prewett was a Master of Astronomical Charms, which is a combined branch of Astronomy and Charms most commonly taught in Japan, for those of you who do not know. 

“You see, not long ago, before the First British Wizarding War, magic users in Britain were encouraged to explore all types of magic and share knowledge freely with each other outside of a controlled school environment. Marlena was able to spell constellations out of her own fingers, a most beautiful form of Prewett family magic, but the knowledge was lost to her kin when British magical families shut their doors to willing students and hoarded their magical knowledge to themselves. 

“In those days, wands were rarely used for most magic, and children would often board with other families to learn new ways of honing their natural-born gifts. Secrecy and distrust were not tolerated in respectable homes, for no wizard worth his salt would have denied a magical child his birthright. Marlena taught many children the wonders of her prized specialty, and a few went on to become Masters of Astronomical Charms themselves, having found their magical niche under her tutelage. 

‘This time I am speaking of, when Marlena Prewett lived, was not a perfect time, or perhaps not even a safer time, but it was an age when our community stood together. Only the bravest, most intelligent, most hard-working and ambitious wizards among us today have the ability to perform magic at a level which was considered merely average in the past. What I just said was no exaggeration; in Marlena’s lifetime, almost every magical person in Britain could wield wandless magic at a level we barely expect our OWLS students to exceed with the added help of wands. 

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is a crime against the magical world. The fact that our most natural, powerful magic, our family magic, has been twisted and turned into something suspicious and secretive is an utter shame. A half-blood terrorist by the name of Tom Riddle destroyed our country’s tradition of discovery and unity by tricking us into believing family magic could never be safely shared.”

At this point in the speech, Hermione throws a smug glance at Blaise, because true to her prediction, at least two witches have fainted right there in the audience. Charlie allows a moment for Healers to come cart the women away, but those who know him well can tell by the look on his face that he has only just gotten started. 

“He lied to us all.” Charlie hisses, pointing at the crowd. “Family magic is more powerful than any one wizard, and yet that madman managed to manipulate the entire British magical community into ceasing education of the most important lessons we could ever offer our children. Children in other countries learn hundreds of different forms of magic under the care of many different families. How are our children supposed to hone the gifts specific to their bloodlines and their souls when we teach naught but basic magic in a general sense at school?”

Charlie pauses, taking note of the horrified expressions on many of the faces in the crowd. 

“I see many of you looking at me in confusion, and though I am no Master Legilimens, I will address some topics I have thus far mentioned in my speech in hopes it will prove illuminating. To be clear, I do not have any blood prejudice. I am not biased against Muggleborns, and I could care less whether someone is Pureblood or not. 

“In fact, I shall never align with the Anti-Muggle platform that the embarrassment and stain on this country’s history we call the Dark Lord ran on, for Voldemort was nothing but a liar and a fake, and nothing that monster claimed to be true shall ever be worth my spit.”

A few men have fainted at this point as well, and the shocked silence of the audience, which had persisted throughout the speech, finally explodes into anarchy at that use of the Dark Lord’s name. It takes a few blasts from the wands of security Aurors to get the audience under control, for even members of the Wizengamot are now in danger of losing their heads completely. 

Charlie takes a deep breath, chances a peek at Pansy for support, and then continues.

“Please, allow me to finish, fellow members of the community. Do not fear that monster’s name; it is Tom Riddle.” Charlie raises an eyebrow. “And I call him a half-blood terrorist because that is what he is, just as I am a Pureblood and my good friend Hermione Granger is a Muggleborn.”

This point in the speech is rather dangerous; Charlie takes a deep breath, and draws upon all of the Slytherin-ness inside him that he possibly can before taking the plunge.

“It has come to my attention that most Pureblood followers who threw their lot in with Riddle were not aware of their leader’s blood status.” Charlie speaks slowly. “Those Purebloods were unfortunately manipulated by a Narcissist who pretended to share their beliefs, but in reality, could not care less about a movement that did not have a thing to do with him. I ask you, what would Tom Riddle care for Pureblood tradition, when he was not one?”

All across the audience, faces have gone pale, seasoned members of high powers falling weak as this young boy publically exposes every idiotic tendency the British wizarding world fell prey to over the last fifty years. 

“Rather, Tom Riddle saw a weakness in the thread of our community, and he took advantage of it to sow discord among us.” Charlie insists. “He created a false platform of Pureblood rights to run on, so he may later terrorize our world and claim himself as a self-titled Lord. Now, some of you may be unwilling to simply believe my words unfounded; you ask what evidence do I have, that Voldemort cared naught for the Pureblood population?”

At this moment, Charlie steels himself, for this next bit will truly be the deciding factor of whether he is successful in this speech or not.

“Cedric Diggory.” Charlie says clearly. “Cedric Diggory, may he rest in peace, was a Pureblood murdered by that animal for the sole crime of being present at the time of Harry Potter’s abduction. Do you know what Voldemort said, when he realized young Cedric had arrived alongside his intended victim, and would not be assisting him in hurting the young savior?

“’Kill the spare’. Voldemort ordered his follower to kill the spare, as if one of our precious scions, the Pureblood son of a great magical family, was nothing. A magical life meant nothing to him, Pureblood or Muggleborn. This is my proof, and we should all be incensed. We should all be cursing that bastard’s name for as long as we all shall live for the crime of murdering Cedric Diggory and so many others, yet we still live in fear of a clown we allowed to take over our world as though we had no say in the matter.

“How could we have let our country come to this?” Charlie demands. “How could we have let puffed-up fools convince us that a magical life was ever a necessary loss? That our community would somehow be safer if we stopped teaching our children true magic? That if we stopped using our most powerful magic, we would hopefully survive? It is our fault, all of our faults, for allowing a terrorist like Tom Riddle to divide us and steal from us all that made our country glorious.”

Charlie places a hand over his heart.

“I take full responsibility for allowing prejudices, wielded like a weapon by unfit leaders, to dictate how I behaved towards my fellow magical brethren. I formally apologize, on behalf of the House of Prewett, to every magical being who has ever felt victimized by my or my ancestors’ behavior. Tom Riddle destroyed our families, wreaked havoc on our community, and made Britain a laughingstock compared to other magical countries, whose accomplishments far succeed our own. We have next to no masteries in magical Britain, and yet we wonder why we cannot entice any foreign students to leave their academies to study at Hogwarts.

“When it comes down to it, our country is failing. Our segregated population will never survive, and I, for one, will not stand for that. I care not a single lick about blood status. Magic is magic, and our community needs every single magical child if we hope to survive to future generations. Tom Riddle has taken so much from us; I will not allow him to take my future family from me as well. We should all be ashamed for forcing out Muggleborns, who are eager to learn our culture, on the word of a spiteful madman who did not care in the slightest for the old ways we hold so dearly.

“The traditions we protect will be demolished if we do not open our arms to change. The truth is that Voldemort lied about Muggles and Muggleborns to further his own aims. The scholars among us know that every single Noble family in this room has married new blood into the line at least once in history to bolster and strengthen their offspring. But this fact is nothing to be ashamed of! Muggleborns made great additions to our family lines before the unfortunate events of the last half-century. I, Lord Prewett, will not fall prey to Tom Riddle’s gossip-mongering any longer!”

Charlie’s entire body is buzzing with magic as he meets Pansy’s eyes. 

“He kept us cowed, he forced out anyone who didn’t grow up under the threat of his reign, and he barred us from using magic the way it was intended for us by the heavens above. Must I offer any more evidence?” Charlie scoffs. “I will not, but I will promise this to the heads of every Ancient house, and with the entire magical community before me.

“As the new Lord Prewett, I will endeavor to act with honor and protect every member of the magical world, as the great Marlena Prewett would have done. From this moment forward, I will be adhering to the old ways with pride- but not the old ways corrupted and misinterpreted by Riddle in Britain, and Grindlewald in Germany before him, and so on, and so forth. Those men were terrorists, and nothing more. I will reject their influence, and honor the rules set forth by our ancestors. I will welcome any magical child into my home, encourage every magic user to explore their family magic and discover their gifts, and open the door to progress in our failing community.

“The secrecy and distrust that has run rampant among us has done more damage than a Dark Lord could ever do. We are the leaders of magical Britain, so this attitude of segregation and suppression ends now, starting right here, at my door.”

Charlie steps back from the podium, releasing a deep breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. When no response to his speech is forthcoming (even Belvina looks likely to faint), he offers a smile.

“I will be holding a ball in the old tradition, once I find an appropriate venue.” Charlie chuckles, and the mourners in the third row can’t help but follow suit, though the rest of the audience thinks it rather macabre to be laughing over the fact that the old Manors have all been burnt down. They then are horrified with themselves for feeling sorry for the children of Death Eaters- or is it right to feel sorry for such a loss, regardless of the family name? The magical population of Britain is no longer sure of up or down, let alone right or wrong. 

“All those who are willing to resurrect the tradition of magical beings protecting one another will be welcome to attend my celebration.” Charlie says. “The time has come for new bridges to be built, new alliances to be formed, and new friends to be made. I am not prejudiced against any magical family, regardless of which side they stood on in any past war. The future of magical Britain will be decided today, and the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett will stand firm against terrorism and be courteous to all. My honored ancestors would expect nothing less. Thank you.”

The hall remains completely silent for fifteen entire seconds, during which Daphne gleefully accepts a handful of galleons from a pouting Pansy. 

Leave it to Daphne to rob me of my inheritance, little by little, one galleon at a time. That’s the last time I bet against someone who spends so much time with these awful people. She’s got insider knowledge. 

Charlie stands firm on the dais, his hands clasped behind his back, and he waits patiently for Miss Burke to vocally accept his presentation. If she accepts it outright, the next demonstration the group planned will prove unnecessary. If she is difficult, they’re all in position for phase two.

Though the Chief Witch begins regaining color in her cheeks, and looks nearly ready to construct an appropriate response, she is interrupted by the last person Charlie would have ever thought to see in that hall.

“Excuse me,” Percy Weasley declares, standing stiffly before the crowd from his seat in the ministerial gallery. “Miss Belvina, may I request permission to speak?”

Being addressed by name appears to be the push the Chief Witch needed to come to her senses, because she instantly rights herself and clears her throat.

“Permission granted.” she agrees.

“Thank you.” Percy offers a slight bow in her direction before turning to face his brother. “Lord Prewett, I apologize for interrupting your presentation. I understand it is a break from decorum. However, I believe it important that I inform you that I will be in attendance at your celebration, and offer best wishes to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Prewett. Though I am not the Heir of the Weasley family, and will not be claiming the title of Lord, I would like to offer the same promise of goodwill in my own home for any magical child looking to learn.”

At this point, Percy pales, and a slight woman with dark skin seated beside him takes his hand in a show of support. Steeling himself, the man continues speaking with a constitution Charlie has never before witnessed from his younger brother. 

“We should cherish every member of this community that we still have with us, and I will not allow my children to be denied of their birthright.” Percy announces. “I will stand with the House of Prewett.”

Though this was not the cue they rehearsed for, no one seated in the third row needs Hermione to nudge them and whisper that this moment is what they have been waiting for. Percy has incited something in all of them, and the graduates abruptly know what to do. As one, the eight young magic users stand, and starting from Theo’s end of the row, they speak.

“I am Theodore Nott, Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Nott.” his voice is gravelly, but holds firm. “I will stand with the House of Prewett.”

“I am Susan Bones, and I will stand with the House of Prewett.”

“I am Gabrielle Delacour, Heir to the Esteemed House of Delacour, and I will stand with the House of Prewett, all the way from my superior country of France.” Gabby releases the full power of her allure on the crowd, and those who might have yelled out in outrage, having finally reached their breaking point, sit calmly in their seats instead. “We in France applaud Lord Prewett for his admiral efforts in repairing his homeland and extending the offer of friendship to foreign allies.”

And on they go down the row, every one of them promising the same, until they’ve finally reached the other end.

“I am Draco Malfoy.” the Slytherin says vehemently, his voice resounding through the crowd like a rush of wind. “I am Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy, and….” 

Hermione and Pansy share a worried look, but do not dare speak. This moment is Draco’s.

“I formally apologize to every person who has ever been hurt by the actions of my family. I am so sorry for all that we have done.” Draco swallows harshly. “I will open my doors to any child wishing to learn, and protect them with my life, if necessary. For that is what is right. There will be no more prejudice in my home.” he reaches over to grasp Hermione’s hand. “I stand with the House of Prewett.”

The audience erupts with a roar. Draco has no doubt struck a chord with many, for a deafening round of applause sweeps through the chamber. The blonde wizard’s stunned expression is quickly swallowed up by Hermione’s hair as she throws her arms around him. 

What Draco does not know is that the mere image of the young graduates standing together, united as friends, from all school-houses and blood statuses, has shocked the hearts of all those watching with a sudden burst of magical energy. 

The young revolutionaries had rehearsed every possible outcome they could imagine, created plans for every potential scenario, but they could not have anticipated eight sources of family magic drawing together for a brief moment of harmony. 

There is a rush of light, and for one single second, every magical person in the room feels the power of those eight as if it is a concrete thing they can grab hold of. This is a form of magic as old as time. 

As the radiant aura of the third row sizzles through the hair of everyone in the near vicinity like a waning heartbeat, an epiphany of sorts strikes the crowd. This is what magic was meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! I can't believe this chapter is finally going up. It feels like a lifetime since I started TPP, even though it's only been like a month and a half at most. I would say we are probably halfway through the story at this point, though honestly, you can never tell with me. I claim to be writing a five chapter short story about Charlie, and here we are, forty thousand words in. I am the worst, I agree.
> 
> Subsequently, I'm visiting my future university for the first time this week, and since I have to travel, I won't be able to post on my usual schedule. I may post again as early as Sunday, but I can't be certain I'll be able to make it. If not Sunday, then next week I will absolutely post. 
> 
> After this chapter, we'll be diving headfirst into all things hoity toity Pureblood. Weddings, dates, and drama, oh my! I'm so overwhelmed and honored by your continuous enthusiasm and support. Thank you for reading my humble ramblings. 
> 
> \--PBY


	17. Pansy is Distracted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

The morning after Charlie’s presentation is born in silence. Blaise’s floor of the building is as calm and tranquil as Muggle London can ever be, with not a single member of the group stirring until half-past ten. Hermione, predictably, is the first to awaken. She dons her fuzzy purple dressing robe and lounges about in the kitchen for a while. 

They decided it would be safest for them all if they spent the night at Blaise’s following the reaction at Charlie’s presentation. Hermione was the first to point out that just because the masses clapped does not mean there won’t be enemies in the corners just waiting for them to be caught unawares. Though the notion put a slight damper on things, they all couldn’t help but ride a high of sorts, and the evening quickly descended into the makings of a party. They’d worked hard to prepare for the presentation, every single one of them felt the desire to celebrate and let loose.

Though room assignments for the night were doled out, with a pair allocated to each bedroom in Blaise’s personal flat and the unused bedrooms of a neighboring apartment, the group mostly spent the evening hanging out in Blaise’s living room. Everyone partook in their host’s extensive collection of fine alcohol, and any barriers remaining between the lot of them disappeared as the sun dropped beyond the horizon. 

There were tears, and apologies, and arguments over the selections on an old CD player (which had gotten some rapid modifications from Hermione and Draco until it filled the place with music). They all danced unashamedly, and Hermione knew she’d never forget the feeling of being unafraid together, though it only lasted the one night. 

The morning provides her clarity over the events of the previous days. She is nursing her second cup of black coffee in deep contemplation when an owl pecks at the window. Rising slowly, Hermione opens the window only a crack and accepts the envelop with a napkin. The bird is unimpressed, but only huffs a smidge before taking back off into the clear morning skies.

Hermione casts a series of revealing spells on the package before deeming it safe to open. Within the carefully wrapped parcel lies a news-scroll still smelling of ink, and a note written on crumbled paper.

All the unsigned note contains are the words ‘Thought you’d appreciate a warning’.

Feeling the stirrings of concern beginning to bloom in her chest, Hermione unties the newspaper and settles down to read. By the time she is finished and slaps the paper onto the tabletop, Charlie has taken up stock at the counter, and pauses in his tea making to assess her expression.

“Everything alright, Hermione?” he asks, noting her shaking form.

“Have you seen the news today, Lord Sexy?” she replies.

Before he can even begin to formulate a response, a new arrival has claimed his attention. Into the room walks Pansy Parkinson, dressed in nothing but a silk robe and an amused expression. Charlie could have died in that moment, for the silk on her body is painfully thin. He can barely breathe as he realizes that he’s now privy to knowledge of dips and curves on Pansy’s body that he never imagined he’d see in Blaise’s kitchen with another observer present. 

Wrenching his gaze away from her and vowing to never look in that direction again when she is so exposed, Charlie hurriedly pretends to be finishing his tea. His hands are shaking too much to risk lifting the milk pitcher, so black tea, it is, he decides.

“I’m rather hurt,” Pansy crows, “To have not been included in whatever nefarious sexual offer you’re proposing to our prized Gryffindor.”

Hermione laughs. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been late to the kitchen, Pansy, I wouldn’t be forced to continue our act solo. We planned our seduction for ten sharp, did we not?” she jokes. “What sort of seductress are you, showing up at ten after?”

“A Lady cannot just show up to a Ménage à Trois,” Pansy crows. “A little effort on the part of the maiden is necessary.”

“I see you’ve broken out the best silks.” Hermione notes drily, eyeing Pansy’s lilac dressing robe, which whispers along the floor as the girl gathers tea from a red-faced Charlie. 

Her hair is done up, but she wears no makeup, and Pansy’s manicured feet reveal to be bare as they peek out from under the robe. It’s the most undressed Hermione has ever seen her friend in the presence of a man who isn’t Draco.

“A little cold in here, don’t you think?” Charlie says.

Both girls ignore him. Pansy’s eyes begin to glitter once she recognizes the paper lying abandoned on the table.

“Anything particularly cutting in there?” she asks, voice taking on a rather spiteful tone as she sits daintily on Charlie’s right side. The new Lord appears completely put out by her casual behavior, and Hermione can tell that Pansy is enjoying it. 

“Um,” Charlie settles on a careful smile, running his fingers through his hair as he avoids his companion’s piercing gaze. “Well, I didn’t exactly get a chance to read it, Pansy. I admit to having a short attention span when you start speaking in French.”

“I have many more subjects I could speak of in French, if it pleases you….my Lord.” Pansy speaks quietly. “Though I suppose ‘le Ménage à Trois’ is a rather stimulating topic of conversation, so I forgive you for your inattention.” 

Hermione shifts her gaze to her coffee cup, giggling silently at the way Charlie’s expression fluctuates between astonished, impressed, and aroused as he sputters back at the girl. 

“Speaking of Ménage à Trois,” Blaise announces, sliding into the seat to Hermione’s left and nodding a hello. “Did anyone else notice that Theo never came to bed, and that Daphne and Gabrielle’s room has been warded more powerfully than Gringotts?”

“It must be Gabrielle’s Veela magic.” Pansy rationalizes. “Wards or otherwise, those witches sure know how to erect ‘em.”

Charlie chokes on his tea, and Blaise and Hermione dissolve into laughter as Pansy continues to sip with her nose high in the air.

“Jesus Christ!” the new Lord exclaims, turning to face Pansy completely as he gives in and confronts her. “What the hell happened to Perfect Miss Parkinson, the Queen of all things snooty?”

Pansy maintains a look of innocence, but the twist of her lips gives her away.

“I’ll have you know, good sir, that I am just as snooty today as I was yesterday.” she asserts grandly. “I just happen to be in a particularly good mood this morning. But I will not dispel any illusions of perfection, if such is the way you’d view me.” Pansy sniffs.

Charlie cannot help but smile fondly at her. “I find myself in a particularly good mood just from being in your presence, Your Highness. You look very sweet wrapped up in silk, though I suppose a string of diamonds around your neck would complete the picture? ” 

His expression is teasing, but the tenor of his voice is not. Pansy’s cheeks color, her eyes widen, and Charlie grins at her reaction to his heavy words. 

“I assure you, dear, that I am in a better mood than you.” Daphne announces, gliding into the kitchen. “Even the sight of Pansy’s headlights cannot measure up to the joys of my evening.”

“How do you know about headlights?” Hermione asks, ignoring Blaise’s snickers and enquiring after Daphne with a puzzled expression. Though Pansy is still blushing, she makes no move to remedy her situation.

“I happen to have spent a fair amount of time in magical Paris, and I admit to being rather taken with Parisian fashion trends.” Daphne explains loftily. “The young ladies in France don’t believe brassieres to be a necessary evil. I quite appreciate their opinion.” 

Daphne’s blonde hair is braided loosely over one shoulder, and an expression of serene satisfaction softens her proud features. Her lithe figure is wrapped in a robe that would be identical to Pansy’s, if not for the fact that hers hardly reaches mid-thigh. 

Judging by the looks of her chest, Daphne is experiencing a similar problem to Pansy. Hermione is abruptly grateful that her fuzzy robe is too thick to reveal her own situation. 

Charlie sighs, dropping his face into his palm. “I’m starting to get the impression that your preferred room-temperature of freezing is no coincidence, Blaise.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” the Slytherin responds, grinning as he appreciates the view in his kitchen. “A cold environment is good for your health.” 

“It isn’t good for my manners.” Charlie mumbles.

“Do you always coordinate outfits in the Slytherin dorms?” Hermione asks.

“Only when the need suits.” Daphne replies, sharing a wicked smile with her old dormmate as she pours. 

“Someone should go wake- and, ah, untangle- Gabrielle and Theo.” Blaise chuckles. “I admit myself impressed by your endurance, Daphne. The Veela are known for their prowess. I’d think Gabby alone would be enough of a challenge, let alone coupled with Theo.”

“I enjoy a good workout.” the blonde witch responds, sinking seven sugar cubes into her teacup. 

“I suppose a big breakfast is in order.” Hermione snorts, smiling to herself as she rises from the table and disposes of her mug in the sink.

“I’ll help.” Pansy asserts. “If you’re lucky and stop being so crass, Blaise, I may even make you my eggs benedict.”

“My Queen!” Blaise bursts out with. “Have mercy, I beg you! Do not dangle such a prize before me if you intend to rip it away.”

“You all are quite loud in the morning.” Susan states, staring sleepily around the kitchen as if she’s unsure of what to do until Daphne takes pity and points her in the direction of the teapot.

“Nice pajamas.” Blaise mutters into his teacup.

“Nice ass.” Susan retorts. “Do you always take off your pants after a two shots of vodka, or was last night an isolated incident?”

“Wow.” Pansy states as Blaise’s skin darkens with embarrassment, “I suppose I owe you another galleon, Daphne.”

“I told you so, you daft little girl.” the blonde snickers. “Hufflepuffs can get pretty spicy, if you wind them up enough.” 

“Spicy?” Hermione repeats. “I think the word you’re looking for is impressive.”

“Go on, take a bow.” Pansy nudges Susan, who is peering at the lot of them as if she’s unsure of whether she should be offended or smug. 

“Are they always like this in the morning?” the Huffepuff asks Charlie. “It’s too early to read between the lines of their cryptic comments.”

“Welcome to dealing with Slytherins.” Charlie states drily, looking directly in Blaise’s direction.

“Why don’t we just have a look at the newspaper, yeah?” he sighs, snatching the paper from the tabletop. 

Blaise’s eyes grow progressively wider the more he reads, and Hermione stifles a snicker as she counts out how many eggs they’ll need from the carton. Pansy whirls around the kitchen, gathering ingredients and setting out to cook in a timely manner while occasionally sneaking glances in Charlie’s direction. Hermione thinks privately that Pansy is the only woman she has ever seen look posh while toasting English muffins.

“Shall we make enough for Theo and Gabrielle?” Hermione interrupts a shared gaze between her friend and the new Lord.

“I would imagine.” Pansy answers drily. “Perhaps we should even make extra.”

“That woman called him Lord Sexy?” Blaise finally crows, laughing as Charlie snatches the paper and Susan and Daphne move to read it over his shoulder. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Charlie groans, lowering his head into his hands.

“Shall I read it aloud?” Daphne grins.

“No!” Charlie cries. “Spare me my dignity.”

“Oh, hush your wailing.” Susan winces at the noise, ruffling her hair absentmindedly as she strains to finish reading the article.

“Can you believe we took up the entire day’s spread?” Daphne says to Blaise.

“Would you expect any differently, with six full color photographs and an entire section dedicated to providing background on us all?” he retorts.

“At least it wasn’t negative.” Daphne offers. “It could have been worse.”

“Worse than insinuating that we’ve begun a sex cult?” Blaise scoffs.

“That was only a comment, not part of the actual article.” Daphne argues.

“Sex cult?” Pansy abandons the eggs, and makes to snatch the paper away from Susan.

“No!” Blaise declares, jumping up and pulling the redhead out of Pansy’s reach. “Finish my eggs first, woman.”

“Scoundrel!” Pansy cries. “At least tell me the worse of it.”

“Let go of me, Zabini!” Susan snaps, cheeks coloring as she ducks out of Blaise’s hold and shoots him a dirty look. “Jesus. It’s not that bad, the article itself is pretty true to form of what we said and did, considering a hag like Rita Skeeter wrote it. She didn’t speculate at all.”

“But…?” Pansy prompts, her expression pinched as she returns to the stovetop.

“Well, it seems that she included outrageous quotes from onlookers in the crowd to make up for it. The opinions sort of vary. Yes, there was one woman who said ‘instead of Lord Prewett, they should have declared you Lord Sexy’,” Susan throws a pointed glare at Blaise, “But there’s also some content that’s not quite as flattering as we would’ve liked. But these things take time, right? We didn’t expect to solve all the world’s problems in a single day.” 

“No offense, Susan, but I find it hard to trust the word of a woman who arrives to breakfast in goldfish pajamas.” Pansy says.

“At least my nipples aren’t glaring at everyone!” Susan snaps. “It could be worse.”

“Like what?” Charlie groans.

“Like Gabrielle.” Daphne splutters, unable to keep from laughing as she covers her mouth with her hand.

“Oh my God.” Hermione’s voice climbs into the territory of hysteria. “Gabrielle! You’re naked!”

“Oui.” the Veela agrees pointedly, placing her hands on her hips. “I am naked. You must be dim.”

“Thank you for this blessing.” Blaise raises his hands to the ceiling as Hermione stammers angrily and Pansy and Daphne cackle loudly. 

“What is with you people?” Charlie complains, both hands plastered over his eyes. “Yesterday we’re calling each other by formal titles last names, and today it’s all fine and dandy to prance around in our birthday suits!”

“What’s a birthday suit?” Draco asks quietly, stepping around Gabby and moving to stand next to Hermione.

The Muggleborn’s face softens at the sight of him, and she quirks a smile.

“It’s a Muggle term for being naked.” Hermione explains. “You’re born naked, so they call it being in your birthday suit.”

“Huh.” Draco says, nicking a slice of ham from the cutting board and shrugging. “Weird.”

“Hands off of breakfast!” Pansy warns the thief, jabbing her spatula in Draco’s direction.

“I'm hungry.” Theo states, settling himself in Hermione’s vacated seat. 

“I imagine you would be, young chap!” Blaise slaps his friend on the back.

“I am.” Theo confirms. 

“Breakfast will be ready shortly, Theo.” Hermione assures the Slytherin, smiling in his direction.

“Thanks, Mione.” he stares down at the table.

“Well,” Blaise fills in the silence that had begun to invade the table. “I suppose last night ruined standing on ceremony in our hardy crew.”

“A few bottles of good whiskey will do that.” Susan says.

“I’m still more concerned with the sex cult comment than with the fact we’re all good chums.” Pansy grumbles. 

“One of the witches in the quotes said something untoward about our fashion choices,” Daphne explains. “I believe the words were something like, ‘They’re obviously sex-crazed, dangerous hippies who are likely bound in a sex cult. It could even be dark magic. Just look at their outfits!’.” 

“Ouch.” Blaise winces. 

“Do not worry, my friend.” Gabrielle takes a seat directly on the Slytherin’s lap. “Your fashion advice and creations are to die for, and every witch in the world will want to wear you.”

“Speaking of fashion, why don’t you go put some clothes on?” Susan says pointedly.

“Pah! You Brits are so boring.” Gabby complains, muttering in French as she takes her leave.

“Jealous, Susan?” Blaise laughs breathlessly as he sits back.

“More like perturbed.” the Hufflepuff snaps. “I’ve seen enough nudity in the last twenty four hours to last me a lifetime.”

“Surely you won’t abstain for that long,” Blaise counters with a smirk.

“Alright!” Charlie flings out his hands across the table. “That’s enough! No more out of either of you. I consider you both friends, but if you two have got some personal issues, take it into a bedroom and for God’s sake, erect a silencing spell.” 

The whole group erupts in laughter as Susan and Blaise adopt identical expressions of bewilderment.

“Wow.” Daphne laughs. “Even Lord Prewett himself. You’re all dirty, rotten influences.”

“What do you mean by that?” Susan demands, glancing around the table. “Nothing’s going on between Zabini and I!”

“I was an innocent before I consorted with all of you.” Charlie protests the accusation, smiling at Daphne. “I just never quite recovered from hearing Pansy say the word ‘erect’. My sensibilities are shot.”

“If nothing’s going on, then why don’t you say his name?” Theo asks Susan plainly.

“I’m afraid he might enjoy it too much.” she spits.

“Breakfast is ready!” Pansy announces, gesturing at the steaming food on the countertop.

And just like that, the squabbling is over. Everyone clambers to grab a plate and claim a spot, including Gabrielle, who has returned in a pair of shorts and thin camisole. For a few minutes, there is no sound but the clinks of forks against plates, and appreciative moaning.

“This is actually really good.” Susan admits. “Is it one of your best dishes?”

“Actually, no.” Pansy says smugly. “I’m a better baker than cook.”

“I’ve half a mind to marry you right now.” Charlie admits, smiling as Pansy’s face turns red.

“Would you be open to a polygamous marriage?” Blaise asks her.

“You can count me in as well.” Susan jokes, and then looks up at Blaise with an expression of foreboding. 

“Shush!” Hermione snaps her fingers before Blaise can think of a naughty response. “Let the poor girl eat, you fiend.” 

“Spoilsport.” he mumbles. 

“I would never accept a marriage proposal so plebian.” Pansy comes to her senses, regaining her snooty façade as she replies. “I have yet to receive a single diamond from the lot of you.”

“What’s your ring size?” Charlie asks.

Pansy chokes on her eggs, and Hermione has to lean over and pound on her back lest the poor girl asphyxiates surrounded by an assembly of snickering fools.

“That’s not funny!” Pansy cries, huffing in Charlie’s direction.

There is then a brief moment where Charlie’s face betrays his emotions. Pansy doesn’t see it, too busy dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, but the rest of them will share pointed glances for the rest of the meal. In that moment, it is apparent to them all that Charlie Prewett wasn’t joking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One could only expect that things would get interesting once the group takes a night off. This was more fun to write than it should have been. I might have to include some more scenes like this as the saga continues!
> 
> \--PBY


	18. Cookies are Dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

Daphne is hard-pressed not to sneer at the unexpected visitors who have seated themselves on her leather chaise. 

She would normally be in her element, poised in her office armed with a clipboard and a strong espresso. Planning weddings is what she is most talented at. If this were a usual appointment, Daphne would currently be gliding through the necessary talking points in order to set a course of action with the bride. She would be laughing lightly at the groom’s jokes, and paying special attention to the bride’s opinions so that the young woman feels important and relevant, though Daphne usually ends up making most of the decisions herself.

Most brides are not the terror that has materialized in the form of Ginny Weasley.

“What do you mean, you don’t have time to meet with us this month?” the young woman demands, her red hair frizzing as she raises her voice.

“I mean exactly that, Mrs. Weasley.” Daphne represses the urge to sneer. “I do not have any free appointments available in April. I am unable to consult with you until May, at the earliest.”

“That’s only a month before the wedding!” Ginny scoffs. “Honestly, we’re paying you a fortune and you supposedly can’t be bothered to see us until then? How am I supposed to plan the wedding in only a month!”

Ah, and there is the issue at its core. What Ginny Weasley fails to understand is that though financials and communications are involved, Daphne’s job is mostly creative in nature. It cannot be forced or rushed. It is no small feat to bring a wedding from the pages of a notebook to life, and like many artists, Daphne has an ironclad process that she will not be swayed from sticking to. She is not some lowly assistant, willing to be pushed and prodded and ordered around by spoiled brides at their every whim.

She is an artist, and her craft requires complete focus. Daphne cannot just stop in the middle of planning the most important day of her most imminent bride’s life to start on a new vision, just because some other bride being married further down the line wants more attention. She absolutely will not ignore the weddings taking place before Ginny’s just to appease the bitchy Gryffindor. Daphne will give every iota of her attention to the brides who have been waiting patiently for their turn to work with her, and whose weddings will arrive first. 

Early on in the start of her business, Daphne realized that she could not plan multiple weddings at once and be satisfied with the result. It would be a disservice to the brides if she split her time between projects, rather than focusing all of her creative energy on one endeavor at a time. So when she is hired, Daphne makes sure to be clear that she will not be available for constant contact. She keeps a record of what the bride initially asked for at the first consultation, and when it is time, Daphne gives her heart and soul to the event.

Ginny Weasley apparently assumed she would be exempt from that process, for she arrived uninvited to the office with the intention of setting appointment dates throughout April without a care for the two other weddings which will occur before her own. Though Daphne may be receiving a fortune in payment for the Potter-Weasley wedding, she is not receiving any more money from this arrangement than she is from the other couples.

For all intents and purposes, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley are not special, and will receive no special treatment from her. The two April brides she’s currently working with have been waiting for over a year to finally walk down the perfectly constructed aisle that Daphne will design for them. Ginny Weasley will simply have to wait her turn.

“With all due respect, Miss Weasley,” Daphne smiles beatifically. “My paychecks are being signed by Mr. Harry Potter. For all intents and purposes, he is my boss, and therefore the only person in this room who is authorized to make a complaint.”

All eyes turn to the man in question.

Shaking his head, Harry focuses his gaze and eloquently says, “Um, what? Did you need me for something?”

Daphne’s smile intensifies as she tosses her hair over one shoulder. Though it may seem counter-intuitive, Daphne has found that Grooms will rarely take their bride’s side over hers- especially if they’re left out of the majority of the vision for the wedding. They generally don’t have a strong enough opinion about anything to argue when they aren’t explicitly involved with the planning. Ginny’s cheeks grow pink as she shoots a glare at her fiancée, but the rehead remains quiet when Harry quirks a confused eyebrow in her direction. 

“Furthermore,” Daphne trills, “I will remind you that I am unwilling to distract myself from the impending weddings of Miss Tremblay and Miss Bell, which take place before your own, and that you were fully aware of the circumstances when you hired me. If necessary, I will retrieve your contact, which outlines your agreement to my terms.”

“There’s no need for that.” Harry says. “Daphne knows what she’s doing, right Gin?”

I do love planning weddings, Daphne thinks. Almost as much as I love being right.

“Now, seeing as I already have all of the information I need to plan your wedding when it is the appropriate time, we have no more business today. I will be happy to escort you to the lobby, Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley. Would you like a biscuit to go?” Daphne offers enthusiastically.

A crystal bowl of Turkish delight has been placed on her desk for this exact purpose. Long ago, Daphne became privy to how a bit of subtle manipulation could positively influence her appointments. Taking cues from her own mentor in France, Daphne learned to raise a gust of sweet steam from the purposefully positioned cookies with just a demure finger motion. If it is timed correctly, Daphne is able to summon the smell at the exact moment she uncovers the powdery sweets. The couple is none the wiser to the fact that wandless magic has just been performed.

Something goes wrong when she attempts the trick today. Rather than the usual wafting aroma, Daphne’s finger twirl inexplicably causes a blast of warm air to ruffle the hair of all three occupants. The scent of the cookies forcefully permeates the whole room. Though she is startled by her own mistake, Daphne has never struggled with thinking quickly on her feet, and she recognizes that a cover is needed. 

It would not do for either Weasley nor Potter to be aware of the particulars of her family magic. Daphne quickly casts a canceling charm on the bowl with an exaggerated use of her Rosewood wand to imply that a strong stasis charm has just been lifted. Harry visibly relaxes his puzzled expression at her use of the familiar spell while Ginny merely fixes her hair with an air of obvious annoyance. 

Daphne maintains her polite countenance, but internally panics. She’s performed that trick hundreds of times without issue. While wandless magic is a natural talent of the Greengrass family, Daphne usually only manages to coax a hint of the scent into the room- just enough to tempt docile grooms into being distracted by the prospect of food, and therefore eager to head home. 

“Wow, looks good. Thanks.” Harry acquiesces, climbing to his feet and biting into a biscuit. Powdered sugar jumps ship and descends onto the lilac carpeting, but Daphne cannot bring herself to care.

Why would her magic respond so strongly, when she didn’t even intend for the spell to be noticeable? How could it have been so powerful if she didn’t channel the magic through her wand?

“You’re welcome, Mr. Potter.” Daphne replies. “Please, allow me to escort you to the lobby. My assistant will be happy to schedule a date for your next appointment.”

“You didn’t have an assistant last time.” Ginny mumbles.

“Well, Miss Weasley, the last two weeks have been rather busy.” Daphne states. “I found need to hire more help, what with the sudden increase in business, and as luck would have it, the perfect candidate for the job agreed to stay in Britain to learn the trade under my tutelage.” 

“Did you get everything you needed?” Gabby asks, smiling brilliantly at the group as they troop into the sleek lobby of the office. 

Dressed in a rather tight grey suit leaving nothing to the imagination, Gabrielle is the physical embodiment of the beautiful assistant trope. Daphne’s seen enough Muggle soaps to know that Gabby would be considered an antagonist in most stories. Her allure is simply too strong for most men to ignore. 

Any other office would likely have never hired the young Veela, but Daphne had no problem installing the girl at the very front of her business. Gabrielle is astoundingly talented at diffusing anger, which unfortunately is a necessary evil when working in a trade as emotional as wedding planning. 

Today was ironically the first instance that Gabby had been unable to convince a bride to calm down and vacate the premises without direct intervention by her boss. Ginny Weasley would not be swayed from her demands to meet with the woman in charge, and Harry Potter was strangely distracted and unaffected by the Veela’s magical allure. He didn’t say a word to intervene as the situation escalated, even when Ginny became outright insulting. 

If Daphne hadn’t heard the raised voices and decided to investigate, it’s likely that the Red Devil spawn would have left with a few more injuries than she arrived with. Veela have a natural inclination to respond to threats with violence, and Ginny Weasley would be no match for the future Lady Delacour. 

“Yes, I believe we have everything straightened out.” Daphne responds pointedly. “Thank you, Gabby. Would you mind fetching the Tremblay file once you’ve seen to Mr. Potter and his fiancée?” 

“I would not mind at all.” the young woman replies sultrily, batting her lashes at the still oblivious groom-to-be.

“Good day to you, Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley.” the Slytherin offers her usual farewell as she departs. 

Though Daphne heads back to her office with the intent of locking herself in for the next twelve hours to work on nothing but the impending Tremblay wedding, there is a pressing matter that she must take care of first.

“Draco Malfoy’s flat.” Daphne states clearly, tossing a handful of power into the fireplace. 

“Daph?” the young Heir’s head emerges, looking vaguely suspicious, but mostly pleased.

“Hello, Draco.” the two blondes share a familiar smile. “Is Hermione there?”

“Yes, she is. Shall I fetch her?” Draco asks.

“Please.”

It is only a few moments before the fireplace is filled with bushy hair, and Daphne is amused that Hermione exchanges no pleasantries before getting to the heart of the matter.

“What’s wrong?” the Gryffindor demands, cocking her head and upsetting the white brick of Daphne’s fireplace with her flamed hair.

“Nothing, dear.” the Slytherin soothes her. “I merely have some information I suspect you’ll find interesting. Just now, I had the strangest experience when I attempted to use wandless magic.”

“Hold on,” Hermione breathes, her head disappearing. “Draco, fetch me a quill! No, any quill will do. Thank you.”

Daphne smiles to herself as she listens to the one-sided exchange. When Hermione reemerges, her eyes are shining brightly, even though the magic of the floo causes her face to take on the appearance of flames.

“Start from the beginning.” the Gryffindor orders. “I need to hear every detail. Believe it or not, I heard a similar quandary from Pansy just last week.”

“Well,” Daphne retrieves her coffee mug and settles in for a chat on the chaise. “I suppose it began when Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley showed up in my office without an appointment…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens….
> 
> Yes, there has been a jump of a month in the story. We will soon learn what the other characters have been up to in this time, since we now know that Daphne and Gabby have been swamped with wedding planning. There is a specific reason for this time jump, though it may not yet be clear. I am up to something, but it is Official Secret Business, of course. I hope you guys like the direction I'm taking!
> 
> I will be unable to post again this week, since my friend has planned a surprise visit to fly over and see me. I promise to update as soon as possible! Thank you so much for reading this torrid tale.
> 
> \--PBY


	19. Pansy is Possessed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

Pansy Parkinson found herself in something of a situation after that fated day at the ministry. Charlie’s presentation had come to pass in an even better manner than they’d hoped, and the enthusiasm of the group had proved contagious after they’d reached the safety of Blaise’s apartment floor. They’d all been so relieved to finally feel like they were getting somewhere with the British magical community. Every single one of them faced down the entire Wizengamot, and survived. It was plenty cause to celebrate, and decorum had suffered. 

Against her better judgment, Pansy had bought into the festivites with an inappropriate fervor. She’d broken a series of rules that she’d always followed that night and the following morning, and in the presence of an unmarried Lord she was rather interested in, no less. Stupidly, Pansy had assumed she knew what she was doing when she drank too much and started speaking without a filter, even after the alcohol had worn off. Like an idiot, she’d assumed everything was fine and gone home in good spirits.

Hermione’s anonymous friend had done them an immense favor sending her the Prophet before it hit the general public, for it gave them all a chance to return home safely before the entire country and beyond read the explosive retelling and reactions for themselves. Interestingly, the article had been inexplicably held from print until the morning after breakfast at Blaise’s. Hermione admitted that even she could not have pulled that sort of deal with Rita Skeeter off, and wondered who had done them such a kindness. 

Pansy’s situation turned sour when the papers didn’t stop.

They had all known the Prophet would print multiple articles about the presentation, but they never imagined that the Prophet (and all British newspapers besides) would print articles about each of their personal histories for the entire following week. After the details of Charlie’s speech had worn dry, the reporters turned to more intimate retellings of schoolyard fights and family scandals. Harry Potter himself was hounded for comment about his rivalry with Draco Malfoy. 

Daphne was nearly bowled over by a reckless reporter screaming on the stoop of her office building about how rumor had it that Pureblood parents commonly abused their children. The man had thrust a microphone into her face and demanded to know how she felt about her own abuse, and despite her best efforts, Daphne could not keep the anger and red flush from her face when telling him to fuck off. 

The reporters in attendance, drawn by their comrade’s loud pestering, were shocked by the reaction of a witch reputed to be Hogwart’s own ice queen in her schooldays. The articles began wildly speculating that the whispers of abuse shared over tea may actually have been true all along. An anonymous Healer at St. Mungo’s then took it upon herself to confirm the suspicions of child abuse in Pureblood households, having supposedly treated one of them herself, and all hell broke loose. 

The public tide had endeavored to drown them all after the Second War, but proved surprisingly indecisive after the presentation. With the added revelation of how ill-treated they’d all allegedly been, it turned decidedly in their favor. Who could blame the Malfoy boy for letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts in his sixth year (as reported by Parvati Patil) when the gory details of his lifelong abuse were broadcast to a compassionate community like theirs?

“Did you hear that the boy was horsewhipped as a child? Some Purebloods have no class, imagine striking your Heir to the point of needing a Healer!”

“Abused children aren’t right in the heads, dear, they don’t know the difference between right and wrong. You can’t blame them for how they act, I bet the Malfoy boy didn’t even know what he was doing.”

“Poor thing! I always knew that Lucius was a monster; he was that way even back in school. I used to have to take points from him for how he treated younger students, remember that?”

“Were you there when the Malfoy boy spoke? He surely must have reformed to offer public apologies while holding hands with a Mudblood, and think of all that money those Heirs are sitting on! I wouldn’t begrudge my daughter if she favored him.”

The revelation was equal parts sickening and useful. Draco spun into a fury when he realized what had been printed about him, and after a worrying display of tears and violent treatment of a priceless tea service, the wizard retired to his flat and did not emerge for several days. Attempts to contact Draco were fruitless, and they briefly entertained Susan’s suggestion that they all loiter on his doorstep in a supposed show of support. 

Hermione eventually assured them all by Floo that she’d returned home from work to watch him as soon as she’d heard of the news, and that Draco simply needed time, but would recover from the blow. Nobody commented on the fact that she’d referred to Draco’s flat as ‘home’, understanding that perhaps the circumstances would have been distasteful. Even Blaise managed to keep his tongue in check. 

The rest of the Death Eater children held their breaths in the days following the Malfoy exposé. None of them wanted the sympathy Draco was being pummeled with, not even if it meant being hailed as a heroic survivor rather than a criminal. Hermione, Charlie, Susan and Gabby found themselves at somewhat of a loss over how negatively their friends reacted towards the possibility of their mistreatment being similarly revealed to the public, but they supported the Slytherins regardless. 

Gabby decided to remain in Britain for the time being, seeing as she had no urgent business to attend to back home in France. Surprisingly, nobody proved more upset at the invasion of privacy that Draco suffered than Gabrielle Delacour. She unashamedly tossed fireballs at any reporter who dared come within ten feet of her in public, declaring them vermin for revealing such personal information without the subject’s consent. 

Pansy was relieved when her own Dossier hit the papers, and not a lick of her mother’s abuse was reported. It stayed her secret, for the moment. Theo was not so lucky, and Daphne was forced to join forces with Hermione and go after him when he disappeared into Blaise’s new Dragon Reserve without a word to anyone of when he would return. 

On the other hand, the sudden acceptance of the Death Eater children in high society meant a windfall for those who had escaped the worst of their dirty laundry being revealed. Daphne’s business exploded, despite the in-depth account in the Prophet of all the illegal potioneering her father had ran for the majority of his life. 

The outfits Blaise had created for a number of them to wear at the presentation were dissected eagerly in Witch Weekly, and once the identity of the designer was revealed, he found himself tailed by order owls every time he risked leaving the protections of his flat. No one appeared to care much that Blaise’s mother was wanted for seven different murders in the country of Italy before her untimely death. 

Susan was hailed as a courageous witch of true merit for standing unashamedly with her classmates in an effort to stop the ‘unpleasant violence’ of the vigilantes. Professor Sprout was quoted to have ‘never been prouder to say that Susan was a member of my House’ when she was interviewed for the piece. Susan blushed pink whenever anyone brought up the quote for two weeks afterward. Unfortunately, since her Aunt Amelia had not contacted her, Susan ended up leasing a flat from Blaise across the hall from Charlie’s.

And there lay the source of Pansy’s problem- Charlie Prewett. 

She has not heard from him in almost a month. 

After the perpetual sleepover broke up and everyone returned to his or her homes to wait out the damage of the incoming article, Pansy had assumed that Charlie would contact her. He did not send a single letter, not even after her own exposé appeared in the Prophet and claimed that she’d never once received approval from her parents, and that she was considered to be a disappointment up until their deaths. 

Hermione had contacted her immediately, worrying that there might have been a mole in their midst feeding information to the papers, but Pansy had waved off her concern. Anyone who had ever so much as witnessed Peony Parkinson’s conduct in Diagon Alley would know that the woman had mercilessly criticized her only daughter. 

To make matters even more unsettling, Blaise started delivering to Charlie’s flat the many marriage proposals that had begun arriving after that first article printed. While they’d laughed over the comment of Charlie being considered sexy, the statement was much less so when stated by total strangers. Blaise had initially crowed about it to Pansy as if it was hilarious that Charlie was being bombarded by offers from single women, but she didn’t find it funny at all. Not a single bit.

As the days went by with no contact, and Pansy skulked through various hallways around Gringotts, she became more and more offended. Had Charlie not said he wished to take her on a date? Had he not called her ravishing, and drank and laughed and even danced with her on the night of the presentation? What could possibly have motivated him to abandon her company so unexpectedly? 

The clincher was when Pansy discovered that he’d set an appointment with Griphook and specifically requested she not be allowed into the office. Considering bank rules banned her inclusion in the first place, Pansy could not realistically blame her boss for finally deciding to adhere to proper procedure. The sting of Charlie’s request, however, felt entirely blamable. He didn’t so much as stick around to say hello to her, though he knew she had been lurking nearby. 

Pansy is so distraught by his sudden departure from her life that she considers breaking yet another rule of Pureblood conduct and contacting him directly for an explanation. It’s considered improper for a Sacred daughter to ever demand correspondence from an unmarried Lord without reasonable provocation, but Pansy is nearing her wits end.

She can’t help but wonder, what did she do wrong?

Her mother probably could have listed enough instances of wrongdoing to fill Pansy’s kitchen with used parchment, starting with the time her daughter made naughty jokes to a Lord over breakfast at Blaise’s, but Pansy had thought that Charlie was amused rather than disgusted. Pureblood though he may be, Pansy always labored under the impression that Charlie didn’t hold the old rules in the same regard as she. 

Could her little allowances of his crass behavior and indulgences in her own misbehavior truly have driven him off, and tainted his opinion of her character so much so that he’d cease all contact?

It is contemplating this very concept that Pansy accidentally performs her first bout of wandless magic. She knows very little about her family magic, and very little about her own parents, in fact, but she knows her family magic was never renowned for wandless ability like the Greengrasses. Perhaps that’s what made the event so shocking. Pansy never imagined her family magic would lend itself to Divination, either, but she would not later dispute what occurrs in her kitchen.

Blaise arrives unannounced for a chat, intending to surprise Pansy with a cheerful bit of gossip to do with Charlie, and is startled into shouting like a heathen when he comes upon her. She’s been standing frozen in the center of the kitchen with a blank look on her face as three teapots simultaneously brew around her in midair and a pillow from the living room couch whizzes around the marble floor. Only Blaise’s shouting manages to break her trance. 

Pansy cries out in horror as she realizes she’s surrounding by floating kettles, and reaches out in vain as the teapots simultaneously hurtle towards the floor. All three ceramic pieces freeze in their plight the moment her hands make for them. The knowledge that the ceramics have suddenly taken to following Pansy’s every unspoken command is too much, and she nearly trips over the pillow still lying haphazardly on the ground as she attempts to back away from the rogue dishes. 

Blaise has no explanation to offer his friend when she asks what exactly is going on. His best advice is to call Hermione, and tell her that the teapots are following orders without the use of a wand. Hermione is disconcerted enough by the news to abandon her work and floo to Pansy’s flat. She begins an immediate investigation of why wandless powers have emerged so late in life with no apparent incitement, while Blaise and Pansy huddle together at the table. 

Hermione remains the picture of professionalism until she closely inspects each pot of tea, and then goes completely still. Blaise and Pansy share a look, and tentatively ask if the pots are perhaps cursed, unprepared for her reaction. Hermione turns to face them with nothing short of an astonished grin. 

Ignoring their trepidation, Hermione goes on to demand to know what sort of tea is each of their favorites. Blaise verbally declares his love for oolong with the air of a man confessing to a crime. Hermione’s smile only widens as she locates a trio of cups, picks up the red kettle, and pours.

“But… this is oolong.” Blaise exclaims, alternatively peering into his teacup and staring uncomprehendingly at the offending kettle.

“Yes.” Hermione confirms, pouring her other friend a cup from the pink pot.

“This is jasmine green.” Pansy begins trembling and drops her teacup, all notions of propriety thrown to the wind as she panics. “Holy fuck, holy fuck, that’s my favorite tea.”

“I know.” Hermione nods, picking up the last and final pot.

“Is that…?” Blaise whispers, bracing his hands against the glass tabletop as if expecting the teapots to detonate without warning.

“Chamomile tea.” Hermione answers his unspoken query. “And yes, it is my favorite.”

“Merlin above.” Pansy mumbles. “I didn’t even know I was making tea. I didn’t even… I don’t remember anything. I can’t remember doing this.”

“I believe you had a premonition.” Hermione explains, eyes shining as she contemplates the witch. “Divining comes to fruition in all forms. No two Seers have The Gift in the same way. That crazy bat’s class at Hogwarts was utterly worthless at teaching the magic of Divination.” she sniffs.

“I think I need a moment.” Pansy states politely, rising from the table and then fainting onto the floor.

“Pansy?” Blaise says, jumping to his feet. “Oh shit!”

“Blaise! Stop shouting and look.” Hermione chastises him breathlessly, pointing to the ground and bouncing on her toes. “She’ll be fine in a second- she didn’t hit her head! Pansy landed right on that pillow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the nature of Pansy’s family magic is revealed! (mysterious and foreboding music plays)
> 
> Do you have any suspicions over the nature of the other characters’ family magic? I’ve dropped a clue or two, so I’m interested to hear your guesses! Also, I haven’t permanently decided on a few of them, so there’s always the possibility that your suggestion may prove inspiring (wink!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I’m excited to continue onward with TPP and discover new forms of magic with you all.
> 
> \--PBY


	20. Draco is Panicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter belongs solely to J.K. Rowling.

“I hate to interfere with situations that don’t involve me directly,” Draco says quietly, settling into Charlie’s sofa, “But I really must suggest that you contact Pansy soon.”

“I can’t formally invite her until I’ve got everything in order.” Charlie reiterates, resisting the urge to raise his voice as he organizes the many papers covering his coffee table. “I’ve told you this before, Draco. Just yesterday, in fact, when you said almost the exact same thing verbatim, only with a God-awful American accent.” 

“I’m working on it.” Draco defends, coloring slightly. “I’ll draw a lot less attention in public if I can blend into multiple environments. It’s important for work.”

Charlie glances pointedly at his friend’s Dragon-hide pants and feather-collared cape, ignoring the resulting huff of displeasure and banishing the papers into his bedroom.

“You’re changing the subject.” Draco declares, cocking his head. “I confess myself impressed by your Slytherin tactics, but the situation stands. Pansy is going spare without your attention.”

“Poetry doesn’t suit you, Draco.” Charlie cracks a smile. “You rhyming skills could use some work.”

“When will the contracts be finalized?” the Slytherin cuts straight to the point, leaning forward with a serious expression. “I thought we’d worked through the last of the resistance.”

“Well,” Charlie takes a deep breath. “I expect, today.” 

The two wizards share a hesitant smile. The Ministry had fought the signing of the contracts for almost the entire three-week period following Charlie’s presentation, since the very day of his initial inquiry, and the setback had left little reason for hope of success. Draco had offered his extensive knowledge of legal loopholes from his upbringing under Lucius Malfoy when he heard of the trouble, but they’d been met with little success.

Interestingly, it had been Griphook’s influence that turned the tables in their favor. The Goblins would forever be welcome at any home of Charlie’s after all they’d done to remedy his legal difficulty. Without their support and indirect advisement, Charlie suspects he’d never have been able to strike a deal with his blasted government. 

Lord Charlie Prewett may still have the might of public approval behind him, but fans don’t aid in combating the many layers of red tape employed by the Ministry. As it turns out, it is outrageously hard to purchase land that once belonged to a Sacred family- especially if there is no surviving British Heir to oversee the deal.

“Are you ready to finally send out that invitation?” Draco asks with a slight smile, standing up with anticipation. “You’ve only had it printed and addressed since the day after the naughty breakfast.”

“Jesus, Draco, sometimes I think you’re worst than Blaise.” Charlie groans, placing a hand over his eyes. “Don’t ever say that around Pansy. She’ll think I only decided to ask her out after that day because that was when I realized… ah-“

“Realized she has sexual desires, like every other human being?” Draco offers helpfully. “Realized she can have quite a mouth on her? Or was it that you realized she has a rather impressive rack for such small stature?”

“I hope you never say something so offensive in her earshot,” Charlie says, frowning, “Or Hermione’s, for that matter. But yes, I suppose that was the day I recognized her as a young woman like any other.”

“You dare attempt to claim you hadn’t recognized those particular attributes before that meal?” Draco jokes.

“You know, maybe it wasn’t my smartest move to employ you and Blaise to help me with this plot.” Charlie retorts. “I hope you two haven’t been hurting her feelings.” 

“Well,” Draco cocks his head. “I don’t think so. She’s gotten mad, of course, mostly at Blaise, but her real issue isn’t the teasing. Pansy’s dealt with his behavior since the beginning of time. It was your lack of contact that ruffled her petals.” 

“Well, consider her petals hereby unruffled,” Charlie shoots an annoyed scowl in his friend’s direction, “Because I’ll be sending out her invitation as soon as I receive word from Griphook that the place is officially mine.”

“Hello.” a voice emanates from the fireplace. “Pansy’s in St. Mungo’s and I was dispatched by Hermione to let the both of you know.” 

“Theo?” Charlie asks faintly, gripping the edge of the table.

The change in the room is so abrupt; it could almost be considered comical. Draco and Charlie remain frozen for ten whole seconds, staring uncomprehendingly at Theo’s head sitting calmly in the fire, before the living room furniture begins to vibrate. Draco’s hands shake in time with the couches, and Charlie jumps up from his seat.

“Excuse me?” Draco asks much too loudly. When Theo merely looks at him, the younger wizard’s entire body begins to tremble.

“Repeat yourself, please, Theo.” Charlie says, striding towards the fireplace. “And tell us first and foremost if you know that she’ll be alright. Then tell us what happened.” 

“All I know for certain is that Pansy is in St. Mungo’s.” he repeats. “I don’t know about her injuries. She’s there with Hermione and Blaise. I believe there was something said about accidental magic. She’s receiving tests at the moment, if I am correct in my assumption that she hasn’t been moved since Hermione intercepted me in the lobby and requested I return home to inform you both.”

“Was Hermione-? Oh, fucking hell.” Charlie slams his hand against the mantle. “Sorry, Theo. No questions, I forgot. Please tell me how Hermione acted when she sent you away.”

“Hermione was acting like Hermione.” Theo says, furrowing his brow. “She didn’t say anything about it being particularly urgent.”

“Oh.” Draco says. “So Pansy’s in St. Mungo’s. I understand.”

The furniture explodes into fluttering pieces with a deafening crack. Splinters swirl around Draco’s frozen figure like a halo of destruction, preventing Charlie from getting near him.

“What the- Draco, stop that!” the Gryffindor orders, shielding his face from the panicked magic that undulates through the room.

“I’m coming through.” Theo says quietly, appearing out of the fire within mere seconds. “Do you know the compression charm, Prewett?”

“Do I- do I what?” Charlie demands, eyeing the wooden splinters warily as they multiply haphazardly in the air. “Oh fuck, I mean, yes, Theo. I know the compression charm. But isn’t it dangerous-”

“No. On three, at Draco.” Theo orders, producing his wand from his sleeve. “One, two, three.”

And suddenly Draco is being squeezed on all sides, lifting off the floor with the force of their magic. The splinters fall with a clatter to the floor as the blonde wizard falls victim to distraction, and busies himself with struggling against their spell.

“Let go.” Theo says, and shoots another hex at Draco wordlessly. The wizard lowers gently to the floor, shuddering all the while with his arms wrapped around himself. 

“Shit, Draco, are you alright?” Charlie gasps, sliding to his knees besides the trembling wizard, ignoring the sting of the splinters.

“I-um, did I do that to your furniture?” Draco asks, staring around with bleary eyes. 

“Yes.” Theo confirms.

“That doesn’t matter, are you hurt?” Charlie stresses, resisting the urge to prod the boy like he would to his injured younger siblings once upon a time.

“You’ll have to bill me.” Draco says faintly, his nostrils flaring. “I’ll have my Goblin at Gringotts contact yours.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Charlie snaps, pulling his sweaty collar away from his neck as he stands and takes a deep breath. 

“Help me get him up, Theo.” he orders. “He needs to be checked out by a Healer. I’ll eat my belt if they’re not already expecting our arrival thanks to Hermione, so we should be able to apparate into the Lobby.” 

“Ow.” Draco whispers, his knees quaking as he attempts to stand.

“What hurts?” Charlie demands, adjusting his hold on the blonde’s arm.

“Something inside feels uncomfortable.” Draco answers. “I confess, I might be sick.”

“Alright.” Theo says calmly, conjuring a bag and sticking it under Draco’s chin.

“I apologize for my uncouth behavior.” the wizard manages before vomiting nosily into the apparatus.

“Jesus Christ.” Charlie mutters.

“I accept your apology.” Theo responds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses as to the nature of Draco’s family magic?
> 
> \--PBY


End file.
